Forever Neverland
by jakey121
Summary: 'Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die.'
1. Shadows Lurking

**Chapter One.**

* * *

 **Forever Neverland;  
The Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games.**

* * *

 **Prologue, Part One.**

* * *

In the darkness of an alley, voices were muttering amidst shadow and smoke. Great veils of mold and sewage hung from the rafters of nearby buildings, creating tendrils of decay that shrouded the two muttering men who kept one eye over their shoulder, cast into the murky fog of District Ten.

An exchange took place amongst hurried hands. They were in a perpetual state of suspicion. Such was life in the Districts – in Panem itself. "You better deliver." A ratty, hunchbacked man of meagre disposition patted his pockets until he heard the last clatter of change in the back of his coat. He hurriedly scooped up the last few coins and shoved them into the other's shadowy man's hand. "I'm giving you all I've got. Wages for a month is 'ere in your hands. I want him gone."

The other man was leery. He had a smile like glass and eyebrows knitted together in a state of smug glee. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder before him. A power balance hung between the two of them amongst the squalor of their District. Even surrounded by the musk that clotted the air and the stench of a dying neighbourhood, he had the aura of a man who belonged in a palace of silk and finery.

"Believe me my friend, I will personally see to it that if I do not do as paid, I will return to you for whatever comeuppance you see fit."

The other man's eye twitched. He may as well as have said a word in a foreign language. He'd never been to school. Never laid eyes on a book. This man in clothes that hung from shoulders that had never bore the weight of a hard day's work; he was on a pedestal he couldn't hope to climb up and join him as equal.

All he cared about was revenge. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. And revenge. In Panem where they televised the brutal murder of children, a cold serving of revenge on the side would be swept under the proverbial carpet. He had nothing to fear when the screams of ravaged women and mutilated innocents were a choir's song to the Capitol's ears.

"How do you manage it then?" he asked curiously. "Them slips must have more guards than the President 'erself."

The other man tapped his nose. "A secret. One of many I have. Rest assured this young man you so vehemently despise will have his name in that bowl several times over the rest of the District's other occupants. You have paid me, and I will serve." He bowed, flourished a little, and slipped the change into his pocket.

His nostril flared at the scent around him as if by instinct. He could not help the curdle in his stomach at the man before him. Nor the way his skin seemed to shrivel at the touch of the cold water that seeped into his sock through the hole in his shoe he'd cut out this morning. All a part of the conniving disguise he had used many a time to slip into the common sight of disease and plague of this District.

"If that's all then." He started to walk away when his final customer before the reaping grabbed him by the elbow and forced him to turn around with a surprising glimmer of conviction.

The grubby man gave him a toothy smile and pulled out another coin from his pocket. "A slip for his sister. I've paid you well and your secret is safe with me. I want her name in there alongside his. Not as many. Just give 'er an extra one. Their dad took my son, so I'm taking his."

"Why the girl?"

He took a breath, inhaling the sharp bitter air and clenched his fists. "I 'ope sir you never feel what it's like to lose someone. Even in this District, even though we all know what it's like to see a dead body on the side of the road, it hurts when it comes to home. He took my boy, I'm paying you to make sure his name is in that bowl more times than anyone else. I can only afford one of his children – but if that girl has the chance to be chosen too…"

"…then you'll take it," he finished for the man whose lip began to quiver with the memory of his lost boy. "I see, sir." He nodded sharply and turned away. "Thank you for your business."

In District Ten weakness was usually paid with a stab to the gut, a fist to the chin, a whisper in the ear of someone who built their strength by crushing ants beneath their feet. Rarely a tear could be spilt in this neighbourhood – it was the core of Ten's poverty and depravity. Yet the man whose memories of his son were gushing forth into his mind, he could do nothing but shed a tear in the alleyway protected by the smoke of a dying District.

He quickly brushed the drop from underneath his eyelash, shoved his hands in his pockets, and disappeared into the smog.

A dirty deal, a boy who had done nothing wrong but been born to a man who had stolen another son from this world, and yet Panem had no remorse for the innocence of children. If revenge was a driving force to make adults commit unspeakable crimes, then so be it.

Add another log to the fire, and it would only grow into a more ravenous blaze.

So were the ways of Panem.

* * *

 **Um? Hello?**

 **I gotta be honest I don't really know why I'm here doing this. I think it's been over three years since I wrote anything for this website. I don't even read any fanfiction on here either. But something has pulled me back and made me want to attempt to do another SYOT. I dunno if it'll work – I dunno if anyone is even out there anymore who reads these stories, or followed me back in the day. So we shall see.**

 **If anyone is reading this who did used to read my stuff, a little update: I graduated University, I got my own house with my partner, and I'm now a primary school teacher. So things are hectic and busy and I really don't have much time in my life at all to dedicated to anything that isn't work. But I want to give this a go, so here I am trying!**

 **This doesn't follow my canon series. I can't remember anything about how it worked, and I remember really cherishing it so I don't want to ruin what I've already set out in that set of stories. This is just by itself, non-canon, just to see what happens and where it goes.**

 **I can't even remember the guidelines for SYOTs or how I used to put together the information on my profile, but stuff you need is over there including the tribute form. I might only get one tribute and this will fail right now, so if there isn't another prologue, thanks for reading for this one!**

 **(yes the title is an album by MO, but well I like it, and I like the meaning behind it in context to the Hunger Games. These kids ain't gonna grow up cause they die lol)**


	2. Gift of Death

**Chapter Two.**

* * *

 **Prologue, Part Two.**

* * *

His hand slipped into the silk of his pockets and he toyed with the coin, rolling it along his fingertip, relishing the coarseness of its dim, rusted metal. He clasped the remnant of a back-alley deal as his other hand continued to grip the warm, rose-tinted skin of a girl that squirmed in the air, her toes curling, her eyes tearing, her life fading.

"With this he asked for me to buy a slip with your name." The man took out the coin and showed the frail girl, the girl who squirmed in his iron-clad grasp, a curl of blonde hair licking the pink skin that began to twist into blue. "Your father was a vile man but at least he had integrity. You haven't said a word to the man who paid me this coin to steal your life away from you. He is a stranger yet he wanted me to kill you."

She tried to open her mouth and make her voice heard. Yet the words were snatched from her breath as a rattle escaped the cloying and dying thickness of the air that was failing to escape her lungs. He grinned, flipping the coin and pocketing it.

"Why does he get the pleasure? It would never work. One slip amongst thousands. The odds were actually in your favour." He tightened his fingers and felt the blood pulsing in her neck as her beautiful skin began to bruise and throb at his violent touch. "Your father stole his son, he wishes to steal his. Your brother. And yet there you are, always amongst the flowers, even in the alleys of a District where blood puddles and the children are butchered like the animals we are so famous for. You caught my eye."

Over his shoulder, she longed for the door to open. She willed it with every fibre of her being for the man she had so loathed – the man that had taken so much, yet had given her existence in the depraved District they called a home – to open the door. _Let him see this man killing his daughter, let him save me._ Yet the dust remained settled as the door remained closed. She could feel it – the life, the blossom of being, the ticking of her time slowly coming to a halt. The last pages and the book would close. Too early. And for what? She had done nothing but try to live in this scorched world the way her mother – her radiant, soulful mother – would have wanted her to.

Yet she would die in the same house where the only person who'd ever loved her had been butchered on the floorboards.

The man could feel her begin to relax in his grip, the fight leaving her, the beating of her heart gently rolling to a close. "Your brother won't be reaped. But the man who paid me for the two of you will at least get the satisfaction knowing one of you is gone. They'll say it was your father. A pig of a man. Yet nothing will happen. People die at the snap of the fingers and no one bats an eyelid."

 _Why?_ She willed the question through the last blink of her eye. To pierce the murderous glee that stared back at her from the eyes of a man she'd never seen before. A man who had barged into her house, picked her up by the neck, and choked her for no other reason than… _what? Why?_

"I accept money to put names into that bowl. I live in the heart of this District, amongst the one percent who actually know what it means to enjoy the finer things." He shakes her body. "This is one of those finer things. This is sport."

 _Father, brother, I leave you. Swine._

 _Mother, I greet you. My beloved._

He tossed her aside. Her head clipped the bedside and blood began pool around the crack amongst curls of blonde. A puddle of red. Another child taken from Panem simply because someone enjoyed to see it happen. To make it happen.

He held the coin in his hand and looked at it. The man from before – the man in the alley – the rest of his payment laid back in his house amongst the other desperate payments for vengeance that would never come. He always fulfilled his promises to these people, yet amongst all those slips, how could it be his fault if the will of these twisted men and women could not come true? This girl's brother would not be picked because there were so many others out there who could be.

The man placed the sole of his shoe on her blue cheek. "Better you leave this world. You were too good for it."

He'd never had a chance in the Games because that had never been his calling. So he took his position in this world, a position of finery and wealth, a position not many could say they belonged to, and from that pedestal he reaped his own sort of game upon this District.

He played with the feelings of wounded fathers and agonized mothers and for every child whose name he put into that bowl, he would take another from this world with his own hand.

 _Why?_ He laughed at the question that formed in his mind.

 _Because I can,_ he thought. _Because if I don't, another monster will._

They would always exist.

One for every shadow.

* * *

 **Yeah you all probably skipped this chapter to see the tribute list. Please actually read it. It means nothing to the actual content of the rest of the story, but I do actually like to hear what people think of my writing, not pretty pictures and strengths and weaknesses.**

 **That being said, the tribute list is below, and I'm grateful for all the submissions. Even after being gone for three years I was shocked by the response. Apologies to those who didn't get accepted. I couldn't fit in every single one of your submissions.**

 **Here are your tributes!**

* * *

 **Tribute List.**

 **District One:**

Male – Chancellor Darrian, 18. _(Zevoros)_

Female – Linnea Halvard, 18. _(Cashmere67)_

 **District Two:**

Male – Roarke Lumally, 18. _(bobothebear)_

Female – Neviya Vavrick, 18. _(Acereader55)_

 **District Three:**

Male – Nikos Rioux, 18. _(TheAmazingJAJ)_

Female – Albie Mathison, 18. _(recklessinparadise)_

 **District Four:**

Male – Destan Moreau, 18. _(dyloccupy)_

Female – Britta Somerset, 18. _(nevergone4ever)_

 **District Five:**

Male – Teak Underwood, 16. _(goldie031)_

Female – Ariella Lace, 15. _(AGirlAndHerWildIdeas)_

 **District Six:**

Male – Celestin Elan, 17. _(symphorophilia)_

Female – Maisley Corvac, 14. _(Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg)_

 **District Seven:**

Male – Otel Sharps, 17. _(FullMetamorphosis)_

Female – Lucina Corals, 17. _(DefoNotAFangirl)_

 **District Eight:**

Male – Javaris Coltrane, 16. _(Brames)_

Female – Paisley Weaver, 16. _(averagefantasy)_

 **District Nine:**

Male – Ryker Barrick, 18. _(Fizzerpeas)_

Female – Iva Giorgi, 17. _(tear that cherry out)_

 **District Ten:**

Male – Shual Armenteros, 18. _(Josephm611)_

Female – Itzel Silva, 17. _(XC-Nerd)_

 **District Eleven:**

Male – Ponche Garland, 17. _( 20)_

Female – Sheridan Sannah, 17. _(Chaos In Her Wake)_

 **District Twelve:**

Male – Damon Millers, 17. _(Paradigm of Writing)_

Female – Altia Wright, 17. _(Axe Smelling God)_

* * *

 **Blog link is on my profile!**

 **Again, apologies to those who didn't make it. There's always next time! (if there's a next time … if there's even a this time tbh)**

 **I can't tell you when the next chapter will be up. Even weekends I'm working so much. Piece of advice: don't teach.**

 **Bye.**


	3. Worst Part of Me

**Chapter Three.**

* * *

 **District One.**

* * *

 **Chancellor Darrian, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

 _Thirty-Seven….Thirty-Eight…Thirty-Nine…_

His fingers delicately traced the ink black tallies covering the first page of a thick, crimson-coloured, leather-bound journal. Flashes of memory stoked warm, cosy wisps of glee in the pits of his stomach. A splash of dark red blood against the cold concrete on a moonlit night. Skull pulverised, innards dashed amongst the marble patio of a stranger's gorgeous manor, overlooking District One's vibrant inner-city. The juxtaposition of gore against glamour set his heart ablaze whilst the pages of memory bled into the chapters of his life.

Chancellor laughed and turned to the next page. _Eighty-three…_ And that was the end of the tally. He felt the crispness of the page and closed the journal, hugging it tight to his chest, relishing what each ink mark meant, before tucking it atop his clothing in the chest of drawers opposite his four-poster bed. It wasn't as if he kept it hidden from eager eyes. Let the curious be curious. His bizarrely endearing yet utterly idiotic parents would never amount a tally to a life. And it was not as if the Darrian family had Peacekeepers knocking on the door suspicious of Anti-Capitol rhetoric.

No. The Darrians were utterly devoted to the Capitol. And why shouldn't they be? Mr and Mrs Darrian had a life of blissful obliviousness and Chancellor had the chance to enact every desire deep within his blackened bones without ever so much as a blink of a suspicious eye.

"Chancellor!" The jubilant cry of his Mother ricocheted from portrait to wall-length mirror to silk and lace drapery. "Guest for you!"

If he had it his way, by the end of this year's Hunger Games, that eighty-three would be one-hundred and six. Twenty-three more fires put out to add to the tally. Chancellor was no idiot, however. There was no delusion of complete power to believe that he could kill _every_ single tribute in that Arena. No matter the sheer delight that would instil upon him, there would be at least the opportunity to take the skills that he had honed amongst the shadow and moonlight of an empty District One's alleyway into the confines of a battle for blood. The sport thrilled him to the core. Cat against mouse. Only the cat had a bow and arrow and kept count of how many things they butchered during the chase.

 _Things._ Because that was all other people were. One, Two and Four … they loved the Capitol. They understood. _But the rest? No. They are nothing._

He quickly buttoned up his shirt and bounded down the stairs, flashing a brilliant smile in his mother's direction who caught it with utter enthusiasm and beamed from ear to ear in response. Chancellor gave her a small wave and moved towards where he could see the outline of his friend, Prada Wellmore, standing with her foot tapping the concrete outside his house.

"Chancey," she said matter-of-factly.

He grimaced on the inside. "Please. You know how much I despise that, Prada." He closed his front door and linked his arm with hers, beginning their stride towards the centre of the District. "What do I have to do to get it into that beautiful skull of yours?"

 _Smash it open?_

He laughed and she only raised an eyebrow at him. The two of them had a very odd connection, if it could be called that. Though she didn't go parading around a banner that spouted Anti-Capitol propaganda, Chancellor could see it in the stricken expression that knotted her ugly face every single time they had stood in that Square. Every time they'd watched the Games together and he had watched with bated breath and a touch of jealousy curdling his stomach with every kill displayed in all its finery upon the screen. She loathed the Games, loathed this District, and loathed the Capitol. Yet to Chancellor, she was still _Prada Wellmore!_ She was not a 'thing.' That didn't mean that once he returned home he wouldn't add her to his journal. Every name but his parents was a potential tally. Still, he found her amusing because her unease was so delightful to behold as she wrestled with it in secret.

Chancellor and Prada continued to walk at a steady pace as the District around them exploded into life. The little worker bees of One had been up since dawn preparing all the glitz and glam that went with the celebration. Banners went from balcony to balcony. Homeowners had made sure their houses were respectable without so much as a speck of dust to be seen. Children were hand in hand with that innocent effervescence that came with the contagious love for the Games. They saw those they adored cheering for something they did not understand so they took it upon themselves to fit in and hollered with everything despite not knowing what the Games really stood for.

Chancellor had known since he was three. He'd been different and ever since taking it upon himself to thrive in the Academy in a unique way he'd always known that today would be his day. He'd been chosen by the Academy not for pure physical brutishness. Not because they knew of his night-time sport. It was because of his desire for what had to be done and his cleverness to know how to accomplish the tasks ahead. _No matter the cost_ , some people said. He didn't see a cost. If there had been a price to pay, he'd already spent it years ago when the tally count reached number one.

"Who do you reckon will be coming with you then?" Prada asked. "So many brainless blondes that would rather twirl their hair around a finger than read a book… the Academy must have been spoiled for choice." Though Prada laughed, Chancellor could see the twitch in her smile.

He shrugged his shoulders. "The Halvard girl, I think."

"The famous fashion designer. Is she going to pose the others to death?"

"That would be a model, Prada." Chancellor laughed and shook his head. "No, that's the older sister. The other Halvard. Linnea."

Prada had nothing to reply with and Chancellor didn't care much for keeping up the conversation. Talking exhausted him. It was only fun during the hunt and only useful if fooling someone into believing he actually relished being a pompous extrovert. He had all the faces to wear but that was all they were to him. In the Games he could just be himself.

From where they were now walking, the fanfare began to rumble through the cobbled streets. He could see crowds forming and becoming bigger and bigger with every person stepping from pathways to join the congregation.

 _My day. Eighty-three … soon to be eighty-four … and so on and so on._

"You have to do this, don't you?"

Chancellor looked at Prada who had stopped in her tracks. She looked back with pale-blue eyes and a face that told Chancellor not to bullshit.

He nodded. "Yes. Why not?"

She shook her head. "Why?"

And he shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?"

A chance to be himself. Isn't that what everyone wanted? The chance to show the world what they could really do.

His journal was a clear picture of what Chancellor Darrian could accomplish inside that Arena.

* * *

 **Linnea Halvard, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

"Linnea, you can't wear that."

She stood in the doorway of her kitchen under the assessing eyes of the Halvard family. It was an eye she'd come to expect from those she called family. They all knew exactly what today meant for her. It hadn't necessarily been planned from the word go at the age of twelve, the first time Linnea had stepped through those silver doors, but here she was. Ready to go. _Yay…_ Inwardly, she groaned.

"What's wrong with it?" She asked, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "I didn't eat that pizza Flash brought last night, and Allia only offered me one drink. Just one. And yes I drank it but it's not like I've blown up overnight…"

"It's the colour," Thea Halvard, the elder sister, twinkle of her mother's eye, declared aloud. "You look like a skinny peach."

She rolled her eyes and moved her gaze towards her father. She could see her mother out the corner of her eye not saying a word, those green, fox-like eyes dashing between her two daughters. Linnea knew exactly whose opinion she would take because it was the opinion she always took. Favouritism within a house was a delightful boon for the child it actually benefitted. For the other – Linnea – it meant constant criticism. _And the girls from the Academy wonder why I tell them they could lose a few pounds…!_ Live and let live was not a motto she stood by. If someone was living a particular way that unnerved her, then rightfully so she would tell. Just like her sister had apparently declared her an anorexic piece of fruit.

"Dad…"

He held his hand up to stop Thea before she could explode into another tirade about how violet was the new 'in.' Or how only poor people got spots.

"Linnea needs to be comfortable with what she's wearing because up on that stage she needs to look like she's owning exactly who she is." He tossed a peach from the fruit basket opposite him and bit into it, smiling. "Besides, peaches are good."

Linnea tilted her head smugly in the direction of her brattish sister and stalked away, twirling her tousled hair over her shoulder, marching to the front door. Outside people that knew her and she could vaguely remember were waiting for her to walk with them to the Square. Although her stride engraved the house with rebellious confidence, Linnea felt as if she was going to throw up her guts here on the newly polished floor.

Her stomach was doing flips and somersaults. Yes this was her day and yes Linnea was… excited? But those people back there saw her for an artificial being that had made her feel exactly that. Her father knew what a good tribute looked like because he bet on them year on year, winning them the life they could now afford. Her mother was devoted to the daughter that sold millions on runways that even launched the Capitol into frivolous glee.

If there was one thing she was determined to do this trip, when in the Capitol, she would make peach the next 'in-thing.' Just to spite her sister.

"Linnea!" That was shit-for-brains voice coming from outside the house. "We can hear you walking. Hurry up!"

Linnea threw open the door and beamed at these people. Shit-for-brains – whatever her actual name was, Linnea had no clue – looked like she could flip a page with that nose of hers. Still, Linnea threw herself into her arms and ruffled her hair a little. "My rescuers. Thea is driving me mental."

Rather than start their walk into the centre, they stopped by the brick wall outside the Halvard House and sat atop, dangling their feet over a pond that was nestled amongst thick, lush greenery.

"You look beautiful." This time it was another girl she could sort of remember.

"Not to be blunt, but…" Linnea paused and watched the girl's face contort with horror as her mouth opened.

"Oh my god, what? What, what, what?" She patted her dress down and opened her bag as if to go a mirror but Linnea beat her to the punch.

"Tone down that eyeshadow. It looks like your boyfriend hit you again."

Others laughed. This girl cringed and turned away. Linnea's stomach performed acrobatics. So many were critical of her, she'd learnt that her perception of her world needed to be channelled through a no-bullshit stance on what she did and did not like. Honesty was the best policy when it came to the way she preferred to live. Even if that very same honesty hurt Linnea to her very core each time her family opened their mouths. Or Linnea spent a second allowing herself to think about herself.

"I feel like ice-cream," Linnea said aloud, jumping from the wall. "C'mon they're selling it everywhere. It's Reaping Day."

"But your dress…" This was black-eye girl trying to get one back.

"Low-fat ice cream, love. I know the best place!" She clapped her hands and together led her group down towards the centre of One. It was like when she wanted to say something, she would say it. If Linnea wanted to do something, she would just do it. Obviously she knew that was not how the Games worked. Linnea had grown up watching them for every single minute detail upon the screen. She could pick apart a tribute's strategy listening to her father's gambling wisdom before that tribute even knew they had a strategy.

But she wanted ice-cream … and it was low-fat.

"I'm going to get peach sorbet!" Shit-for-brains declared.

 _Fuck you._

* * *

 **At least I didn't quit?**

 **I thought I could juggle being a teacher and coming back to writing fanfiction but fml I've been hella busy. But hey it's now summer so hi all if anyone is still there.**

 **I'm not gonna try and overkill it by spending hours on 8000+ word chapters for Pre-Capitol. Each District will get one chapter, each tribute on average 1000ish words. Why make my life harder.**

 **Anyway. It took me 7 months to get this chapter out. Sticking to that fantastic update speed, District Twelve I'll see you in 7 years!**


	4. Bittersweet

**Chapter Four.**

* * *

 **District Two.**

* * *

 **Roarke Lumally, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

He found it morosely charming their blind devotion to beating the living shit out of each other.

Their faces were carved from invulnerable steel and chiselled into these mighty warriors that District Two so believed to be the pantheon of their finest. Roarke smirked as he watched them stoically batter away at mannequins and then pulverise each other with their red-raw hands.

 _So serious,_ he thought as he swung his baton round and round, listening to the whistle in the cool, crisp air. "Yo!" he shouted, blissfully ignorant to their peeved expressions as Roarke strutted towards them. He recognised the ginger brick as Dirk and the little weedy blonde as Thyana. _Power couple my ass,_ Roarke thought to himself as he came to a stop just in front of their magnificently dull display of strength.

"Can it be that I'm looking at this year's tributes?" Roarke saw the two of them very quickly glance at each other, as if for a moment confused, and in a flash deciding not to show Roarke that confusion was anything Two's heroes would ever feel in their lifetime. "Got to say, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that. Poor guy." He gestured to the mannequin whose neck was now swinging from a tether of fabric.

Dirk rolled his shoulders. _Impressive._ "What do you want?"

"Cheer up guys. If today is your day, can't you show at least the slightest hint that you actually want to go?" Roarke beamed at them, as if to show them how it was done. He knew that they would never. _Miserable gits._ "Go on Dirk, give it a go."

Thyana rolled her eyes. "Go piss someone else off, Lumally. The centre needs more swords. Your dad could probably use a hand. They go blunt in a matter of days. Not the best craftmanship around."

"Burn," Roarke laughed. "Yes, maybe my dad has lost his touch recently, but better a blunt sword than hacking a poor wannabe tribute's head off."

"We prefer them sharp," Dirk grunted.

 _Sharp sword, dim mind. District Two's mantra._

Truthfully, Thyana bringing up Roarke's dad left him feeling sucker-punched. It wasn't the first time either that these bullish thugs thought to raise the circumstances that surrounded Roarke's upbringing. Youngest of four to a family of blacksmiths. He would have thought that Two would actually admire those that armed the Victors of the future, but no. Roarke's family worked their fingers to the damn bone and District Two liked to offer their own middle finger in response. _Well up yours, too._

"Are you thinking of having a go yourself, Lumally?" Thyana asked. She now attempted her own grin as if it were meant to come across scathing. Roarke found it anything but. "Dirk and I know what we're up against." She tried to link his arm but Dirk had the emotional and romantic capacity of their mayor's left ass cheek which left Thyana's arm awkwardly dangling there, elbow jutting out. "It's our last year. Our relationship has stood the test of time. It can't survive the Games, but whatever. Neither can anyone else but me."

"Me, babe," Dirk said. "I think you mean me."

"Me."

"You'll make the finale with me, but c'mon."

"Fuck you."

"No we can do that later."

Roarke watched them squabble with amazement in his eyes. Here they stood, District Two's best of the best, and they were now arguing about Dirk having to cheer himself up in the Arena, as Thyana was definitely not going to be doing _the thing you love the most_ once the Games had started.

Roarke wanted to ask what that was but stopped himself. He started to laugh as their argument grew louder and louder. Someone else peered round the corner of the building, where they stood just outside the Training Centre, but quickly fell back into the shadows once they realised who it was that stood there. No one cared about Roarke Lumally. He was the blacksmiths' kid. The _youngest_ Lumally. But Dirk and Thyana. _Maybe I shouldn't be laughing at them…_

His radiant smile in the face of sheer sexual stupidity and the threat of abstinence was quickly wiped clean when he realised that they were no longer glowering at each other, but staring with manic hatred towards Roarke.

He knew he should never have waltzed over here all chirpy and cheery when he knew Two did not have those emotions in their repertoire. Sometimes, though, he couldn't resist the urge to smack people with a smile because life was short, and in Panem, even shorter for those that wanted their try at eternal glory.

But now… Roarke's omnipresent smile fell and his face paled in colour. "Sorry?" he said. "I suppose I am very sorry. You two are very much the idols of so many bright-faced, eager-eyed twelve-year olds that can't wait to slit a kid's throat. How I envy them."

 _Sarcasm… turn it off!_

Dirk took a step towards him. Thyana copied.

Roarke knew that Dirk would not be today's tribute. Roarke was quicker than him and would make it up to the stage first even if he had to climb over Dirk's impossibly muscled frame. He just had to. After all these years of being where he was, where his family was, it just made sense. It clicked.

But Roarke did not pick fights. He ran from them. _Well, I pick them accidentally…_ he thought to himself as he pirouetted on the spot, flashed them both another grin, and leapt forwards before Thyana could get her surprisingly long arms round his shoulders.

They wouldn't chase him. Dirk might have tried but Thyana wasn't as dumb as her boyfriend. She'd hold him back and they would resume their training. Roarke had done some of his own but watching these behemoths have a go at whacking the shit out of inanimate objects and then each other gave him pause for thought.

He was good at making friends. Even better at pissing people off and making enemies. Some – those lower on Two's food chain – actually enjoyed a smile here and there. But he rarely allowed himself the chance to actually get into a proper fight. He'd been beaten many times by his older siblings, such was the curse of being the youngest in a family. But that was it.

 _I'll win my own way,_ Roarke thought to himself as he ran the rest of the distance to his parents' workshop. _It's just a matter of what way that will be._

He tried to retain focus for the rest of the morning, but Roarke found his mind nearing distraction like it usually did.

Topic: Dirk's fantasies.

 _What the hell does he want Thyana to do to him?_

* * *

 **Neviya Vavrick, 18 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

"What a fucking moron."

"Don't get worked up." Neviya heard their voices mingle with the thump and bitterly angry whack of weapon against stuffed mannequin. "Just make sure, if Lumally tries anything, you get up there first. Am I fuck going to be seen in the Arena with the blacksmith boy."

Neviya had barely taken two steps out of the side entrance of the Academy when she'd seen Dirk and Thyana, saviours of the world, about to murder the poor Lumally boy. Neviya wasn't one to easily shy away from the curiosity of seeing who would kill who first, but best not to injure herself on Reaping day.

 _Especially because that blonde twig thinks she's going to get there first,_ Neviya thought, grinning to herself. _Pfft._

Neviya whistled as she swung her arms back and forth, relishing the breeze that washed through the streets of her home District. There were many open windows with people sat or stood at their balconies, enjoying each other's gloomy company on what was supposed to be a festive and proud day for their heritage. This was the centre of Two. _Where the hell are all the happy people?_

Neviya wasn't exactly about to bend over for the President but she could appreciate that today was an important day. In about two hours, she would be on that stage, Thyana crying ugly tears in the wings of the square as she shook Dirk's thick hands imagining ways of besting him. Because that was what this was. Strip back all the patriotism and the mindless arrogance about being the strongest of the strong, the slyest of the sly, the Games were about coming out on top.

"But it doesn't mean you guys have to be so goddamn boring!" Neviya found herself shouting out loud. Someone glared at her from their rocking chair. An old, sour-faced lady with pursed lips shook her head. Neviya beamed back at her. _Respect your elders, Neviya,_ she had always been told from her father. _They set the groundwork for where we are today._ Neviya doubted this bitchy crone had anything to do with helping her where she was today, but all the same, Neviya waved at the woman and proceeded to skip the rest of the way home.

"You're late," Jericho, leader of the mighty Vavrick household, patriarch of their ginger abode, stood at the door as Neviya leaned against the wood. "Neviya, what have I said about tardiness?"

"Better to be the first one in the room than the last to walk through the door. There's no such thing as-"

"-fashionably late," they said at the same time.

"Exactly," her dad said, moving his arm so she could walk through. "I hope you'll clean up before today. Remember what your mother has always said about dirty clothes."

"Yeah, alright," Neviya said. "Jeez man will you quit with _remember what your great aunt Glinda said…_ I know, okay. Believe me. Today will be perfect."

He smiled at her. "That's my girl." Truthfully, he wasn't that bad. A little overbearing, but he'd taught Neviya everything she needed to know to be a success. Besides, she had her own little sayings that her parents found to be quite endearing. _A smile a day keeps the doctor away._ She knew that wasn't theoretically correct. Really, a smile a day made her a freak in these parts. It's probably why she found that Lumally kid from earlier so endearingly stupid. He was picking a fight with the wrong people but at least he actually looked like he was having a good time.

That was the problem with Two in general. Panem as a whole. Every goddamn human being on this forsaken planet. They all seemed to just … hate existing. Neviya wasn't a fool and knew life was unbelievably difficult but why make it harder for yourself? Smile. Live a little. Cheer the fuck up.

"Okay okay okay, what to wear, what to wear." She went through the first of her wardrobes, rifling through the tulle and the frill and the fanciness of it all. Once she'd chosen a dress she began to brush her ginger mane, straightening it to perfection and then began picking at her teeth. "Remember what your dentist said…" she started to laugh and continued to prepare for what she was about to do.

She was no Thyana looks wise. She'd probably never compare to the strength of Dirk. The one thing Neviya did know, thinking about what was to come, thinking about all the memories and flashbacks her father liked to serve her at each and every meal, was what to do in the situation and how to tailor her approach to ensure her best possible chances.

She would have loved to join the fight with Two's couple of the century, but that wasn't smart. She would have loved to have quit the marble business, quit the Academy, maybe write a book. But that wasn't Panem. It wasn't what she was _good_ at. She knew the ins and outs of this world because as much as her father went on and on and on and on, he had raised her right. Bang in the middle of a cutthroat industry and today Neviya was about to enter something cutthroat in the most literal sense of the word.

The clock continued to tease her as it seemed to take forever for anything to actually happen. Neviya spent the rest of the morning lying in her bed, reading the same page of her book a hundred times over, just … _thinking._

Most people out there found her to be fake. They did not understand how someone could actually find something to smile about in absolutely everything that existed. But that made Neviya … Neviya. Even today she knew what to smile about. She thought about the cameras clicking away and played with her hair, knowing it looked perfect. The words in her book meant nothing as she thought about the way her body looked, the clothes that fell elegantly against her frame. It all went together perfectly.

"Neviya!"

She leapt up at the sound of her father's voice. The book went flying and knocked the mirror off her vanity. _Oops._ Neviya shrugged and bounded for the staircase, jumping down two by two until she wrapped her father in a big hug and kissed his cheek.

"Ready?" he asked.

Neviya thought of the intimidating Dirk, she thought of the confident Thyana, and she even thought of the friendly but stupid Roarke. But no one was quite like her. At least that's what she had to believe. In the face of constant scrutiny about the smiles and the thrills that Neviya solely experienced, she just had to believe that.

"Ready."

* * *

 **8 months later? Sticking to my update schedule then!**

 **In all seriousness though, I hope you are all okay in this current world we live in. Things are difficult but we can all do our bit and get through this.**

 **I'm hoping out of all the crap right now, this is something that will start to take a bit more shape. I have more time on my hands. Given my job, I still have to go out and work, even though schools are closed there are still some kids that need looking after so that's where I fit in. But I still have more time than usual and this (as well as Animal Crossing!) is a good escape from the shit we're going through.**

 **Let me know what you thought!**

 **Seriously tho, hope everyone is alright. Keep smiling! :)**


	5. Red Desert

**Chapter Five.**

* * *

 **District Three.**

* * *

 **Nikos Rioux, 18 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

Over the wailing racket above his head, Nikos could barely hear his own thoughts.

"Will you…" he picked up the splintered broomstick next to him, half-decayed and mottled with flecks of mouldy green and smacked it against the ceiling, "…shut the hell up!" He continued to bang it, dust raining from the twisted white paint and collapsed back into his mattress.

 _Thank fu-_ the voice of his flatmate – the self-proclaimed Tenor of Three – reached a crescendo that even Nikos couldn't abide by any longer. "Fucking useless." He tossed the broomstick aside in anger and jumped off the mattress, almost slipping into a wade of discarded clothes and ravaged bits of food waste. "If he doesn't stop that hideous…" Nikos spent the next thirty seconds bitterly whispering to himself and imagining Todd's counter-argument to his sounder and more logical one. In Nikos' head, every argument went his way.

In reality … "Nikos, I can feel your misguided anger from here." The door to his bedroom flew open and Todd reared his ugly, sonically-challenged face. "A picture of happiness."

"Pipe down," Nikos barged into his room, shouldering him out the way and into the chaos that was Todd's den, humble abode, un-soundproof cave of filth that had become their shared flat. "That's the fifth time in two days. Are you deafening us by accident, or is it part of your genius plan to scare us away and steal our stuff?"

"If I wanted to steal your stuff, it would be stolen."

"Is that so?" Nikos snarled. "You and your golden voice think they're better than me? Than all of us?"

Todd put his hand to his heart dramatically and took a step closer to Nikos, extending his hand to touch his shoulder. _Don't even…_ he shrugged it off and took a step back towards the realm of sanity that was the rest of the flat he and his friends shared.

"It's cute that you seem to think otherwise. Although trying to convince you against that is also not going to happen."

"Not a chance," Nikos said. "Just make sure you stop that infernal noise otherwise I'll rip your vocal chords from your throat."

"Spoken like the true knuckle-head you are."

Nikos felt the urge to spin around and knock this asshole to the ground. Kick him twice for good measure. Maybe fulfil his promise and save the rest of their flat from the vocal barrage that was the Tenor of Three's misguided perception of his own talent.

Only, Nikos didn't this time. Another day, he wouldn't have held back. Today … reaping day, Nikos found his mind elsewhere. This argument did not matter and for Nikos there was rarely an argument that didn't.

"Just keep it down, alright." Nikos slammed the door so hard that a sheet of dust cascaded to the floor and down he stomped back into his bedroom. He returned to his mattress and turned over, head in the crevice of his shoulder, staring at the rusted pattern of blood ingrained into his wall.

 _Did Volte really kill that guy…?_

He shook the thought from his head. A question for another day. Their flat was a haven for the criminally insane, or at least Nikos liked to label them as such. If Volte really did kill someone in Nikos' bedroom, then so be it. Their way of life in Three – in Panem – was bathed in the blood of so many people, what did a speck of it on his bedroom wall matter?

He began to pick at it with his fingernail, feeling the crust of it mingle in with the dirt beneath his own. Inside, his gut twisted with a sense of ingrained rage, an inbuilt response to breathing this filthy Three air, the fumes of a corrupt country plagued with mindlessness and idiocy.

It wasn't like Todd really made Nikos angry. He was not the source of wrongdoing. He was simply a punching bag for all of what Nikos felt, here on this mattress, staring at dried blood day in day out.

His room was littered with the prizes of so many petty thefts and stupid little robberies that he and his friends carried out just to simply get by and have this place to live. It was a disgusting haven for a group of Three's lowly citizens but it was theirs.

Yet it still made Nikos so angry to think about what life _could_ be. What was out there, not so far from where he lay wasting away in dirt and scum. Above him the singing started and his gut continued to contort with pure, unfiltered anger that made his eyes begin to swim.

This merry group of friends he had were the only people in this world that gave him any time of day and that was because Nikos could barely speak to anyone without getting angry. _Because why shouldn't I?_ The thought washed through him as he picked the last bit of blood on this particular patch of the wall and flicked it over his shoulder. He turned to lie on his back and faced the ceiling where Todd's wails reverberated through their flat. _Why should I not hate everyone if they hate me?_

He was not the bad guy in this world. Neither was the singing sensation nor the suspected psychopath they shared a home with. They were just kids caught up in this whirlwind.

Without really thinking about it, Nikos had his jacket on and was outside, striding away from their flat with neither purpose nor destination in mind other than to simply _be_ _away from it all._ Yet it was hard to escape. His mind was its own museum of everything he'd seen by just existing in Three.

It was a never-ending tour of their past, present and bloody future.

"Yo, Nikos!"

He heard the footsteps behind him and cringed immediately, twisting on the spot and rounding on Todd before he could even get another word in edgeways. "I left to escape your obnoxious singing." _Not true. It wasn't Todd's fault._ "Yet here you are, stalking me with not only your complete annoying and idiotic presence, but also that whining little voice you have just by saying my name. Leave. Go the fuck home."

Nikos whirled around and stormed off. _It's not my fault … it's not Todd's fault …_ yet even though Nikos knew that, and even though he believed himself to not be the villain in this story, his desire to want to argue away his feelings and fight left him blaming idiots like Todd. He heard the footsteps again and this time couldn't contain it.

His fist connected with Todd's nose, a _snap_ followed by an operatic scream filled the silence, and Nikos barely registered his friend and flatmate writhing in the mud.

He needed to get out of this hell. He saw more for himself, he craved _more._ But how to get there?

How to escape a life written out for him, scripted and published right from the off?

Nikos had an idea.

A terrible one.

* * *

 **Albie Mathison, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

Today was Reaping Day. _Fact._

Today, Albie knew she could get chosen, picked from thousands, sentenced to death and proclaimed tribute to the Capitol – cannon-fodder. _Fact._

Today, Albie knew she could get chosen, picked from thousands. Thousands. So the odds were, as the cliché went, in her favour. _Fact._

"Albie, stand up straight!" And mother was, as mother always has been, unutterably annoying. _Also fact._ "Albie, today you and your father are to walk to the Square together and represent our family there. I have a small meeting with some of the other engineers. A technical fault of sorts has crept up in our systems and-"

"Is the reaping not compulsory?"

Her mother's lips pursed immediately and Albie bit her tongue. "What have I said about answering back?"

She felt the sharp bite of her mother's backhand against her shoulder and gritted her teeth. "I apologise, mother. It shan't happen again."

Her mother nodded her head quickly and turned to her husband. "And you-"

"-but dear, surely we should all be there. The work can wait."

Albie had learnt through trial and error the best way to approach her family. The best way to deal with the misguided warmth her father tried to smother her in and the way he had to do it behind closed doors because if their mother so much as got a whiff of actual, paternal love … well, backhands would be the least of their worries. _Fact._

"-do not interrupt me! I have made my decision. I have been called because I am a skilled engineer, you have not because quite frankly you are not essential to this project."

Albie watched her father for the ten-thousandth time slink into the shadows that the Mathison matriarch had forced him into. She immediately straightened her back when her mother's gaze went straight back to Albie. Poise was everything. Manner and tone essential components to Albie surviving in this world she'd been thrown into from the unknowns before.

It didn't take a genius to know, even from a distance, that Albie was the adopted daughter of the Mathison pair. And it did not take a genius to work out who ran this family.

"So, Albie. You know your chances are very slim, but you must be aware what might happen."

 _Death. Destruction. Murder of children. Check, check, check. Fact._

Albie nodded courteously. A sliver of fear raised goose-bumps on her spine but she ignored the sensation. Fear did not play a part when the odds really were favouring Albie's chances. Yes, she was eighteen which meant the system forced her to have more slips in the bowl. But they'd never had to put more in there. _I'm safe … or at least, statistically safe._ Albie couldn't count it out completely. To do so would be foolish. The chances, though incredibly minute, could not be ignored. Only an idiot would think themselves invulnerable from the claw of the Capitol.

"It's important that you represent us well out there. Eyes won't be on you, but all your friends shall be there amongst you. Fellow engineers. The elite of Three. You want to make a good impression, so that if, by the odds, you are chosen, you hold your head high and think about it logically," her mother raised her fingers and clenched them into a fist. "You're strong and smart. Three do not have many victors and chances are you wouldn't survive, but your brain is full of everything I have tried to impart upon you." She took a step towards her adopted daughter and placed a strong, domineering hand upon her shoulder. "You are the best of me. Just remember everything I've ever told you and you may just stand a chance."

 _I am not the best of you. I am better._

Albie internally scolded herself for such a rebellious thought. The truth was that Albie's mother was rearing her for a position in Three that she was not good enough to achieve herself. This meeting of the engineers, what she wasn't saying, a secret she would never tell, was that Albie's mother would simply be sat in the background taking notes whilst the more senior members spoke.

It was a life of lies.

Her parents left the room and Albie was left to slump into a chair, sighing deeply and then, as if by instinct, sitting perfectly straight and staring at the ornate clock that hung delicately and proudly from the wall.

 _Think about it logically, for logic is the best thing you have._ Yes, Albie could be chosen, and yes if that did happen, she would not be totally useless. _But logic does say … I'll die …_

The dark thought crept into her mind before she could snuff it out and stop it from rooting its way into her head. Albie barely said a word to anyone because that was the way she had been raised. These so-called remnants of rebellion against her mother's authority or the cold and sympathetic way she looked at her father's weakness, yearning for love, made Albie feel uncomfortable. A dark thought about death in the Games when the statistics showed she would most likely not be chosen … they did not add up.

They did not make sense.

She clenched her fist. Unlike her mother's however, this was a fist conflicted with a fight inside Albie that she had been fighting her entire life. She was quietly surviving in a world that was so loud, full of deathly noise and the authority of so many people who wanted to tell Albie how to live her life.

If she was given the chance to live it her own way, Albie hadn't a clue how she would do that. So if she was chosen, yes the strings would be pulled, dug into her back so she became a marionette for the people of Panem to watch on the screens. But her survival would be her own. The game her own to play.

Her lips twitched upwards, just a flicker of a smile, then fell into the placid, collected way as to what had become etched into her skin. _The chances are for me, not against me._ For a brief moment, Albie did not know what was worse. The Games or this.

 _The Games, the Games, the Games._

She was scared of it all, quite simply.

Life was a giant bowl full of things to be afraid of. Yet if she was afraid, Albie did not give it away as the bell began to chime and she left her home with her father. Towards her last reaping. Towards where the odds were stacked _in_ her favour.

 _I will not be chosen. Lie._

 _I might be chosen. Fact._

 _I'm terrified. Fact._

* * *

 **This took six days! Not six months or six years. Six days! Woop!**

 **I guess I'm not really showing the actual reaping ceremonies in these chapters because I don't really think you get much of a character from them. I prefer these before the reaping moments. At least that's my opinion.**

 **I dunno if the people who actually submitted to this story are out there … I'm not as much of a review whore as I used to be. I'm mainly writing this in my spare time (which I have lots of now) and because it's fun to get back into fanfiction. But still … something would be nice I guess … big thanks to everyone that has been following and reviewing. Maybe I am a review whore still idk.**

 **Anyway, carry on living indoors, keep everyone safe, you know the whole shitty deal we have right now! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	6. Hallucinate

**Chapter Six.**

* * *

 **District Four.**

* * *

 **Destan Moreau, 18 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

Underneath the gleaming lights of the Academy, Destan threw one knife towards his target, pivoted and arched the other through the air, the silver catching the breeze as it whistled and pierced the thin material of the target.

For a moment his heart fluttered at the prospect of missing, hearing the tell-tale thump of a knife as it skittered against the hardwood flooring. Every echo a reminder that this was his life in these halls. Not outside of them. He could have sworn each echo was designed just for him. To make him feel nervous.

 _Aaaaand … I'm panicking._

He could feel his breathlessness before it hit him. The twist in his stomach as the iron fist clenched round his confidence in mockery of what today was. He swallowed the lump in his throat and threw another knife. An inch outside the bulls-eye but close enough.

"Well done." He heard clapping behind him and twisted on the spot. "You've been practicing."

Destan wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled at his mother on her approach. "Oh only every five minutes. Got to perfect it after all. A miss in here, I can just try again. A miss out there…"

"…you're just another dead nobody." _Wow. Harsh._

What his mother had to say did not match the exterior – her face was awash with happiness and pride as she scooped him into a hug and nestled him close to her shoulder. She was the giant of their Academy which made it only right she was also the leader of the entire system here. She chose who went into the Games. She chose who was ousted right from the off, sent packing to a life of fishing and peace and … Destan shook the thought from his head and again ignored the clenching of his gut.

He was doing this for her. But he was also good enough. He just had to be. The thought of dying, of being that gutless nobody, a statistic to support the rise and victory of some outer-district nobody. They were below him. All specks on the earth. He just had to be good enough.

Yet, even today, mere hours from being on that stage presented for Panem to see, he didn't _feel_ good enough.

"Bring it in," his mother said, raising her fists. "C'mon. Take it easy on your dear old mother."

Truthfully, it was the other way around. The only reason he was doing this was because she hadn't been able to do it herself. He'd been told that right from the off. After all, apparently it was his own fault she'd fallen pregnant with him. _Or maybe try a condom next time. Thanks dad._

He didn't know his father. Lucky escape?

Destan became as light on his feet as he possibly could and raised his arms to meet his mother's punch. He dodged the second blow and attempted to right hook her face to which she parried and went for his shoulder.

"So, the plan?"

"Plan?" Destan asked. "What plan?"

She laughed and shook the sweat from her hair. They continued to round on each other. Her next left hook caught Destan in the jaw. He bit his tongue to stop himself crying out. _Pussy,_ he thought. _Imagine if this was the Games. They'd be laughing at you. You cannot allow scum to laugh at you._

"Every future Victor did not win by simply winging it."

"How do you know that?" Destan asked inquisitively, arching an eyebrow. "I mean, maybe in Four we go in with a plan. But kids from the outers, surely they don't?"

"Who told you that?"

Destan thought about it and then the thought left his mind just as fast. He didn't particularly care that much what they did. He had to focus on himself. All the self-doubt about those stupid throwing knives missing their targets and skittering to the floor, shaming him with their brittle, metallic laugh. _Well fuck those knives._ Yet the jack-hammering of his heart against his ribs didn't stop, and neither did the right hook which caught his cheek and sent him slamming into the ground.

He let out an _oof_ and reached out for mother's helpful hand. Only his fingers met thin air and he looked up at his mother, her back straight, staring down at him with a judgemental eye.

"Mummy's not going to be there to help you, Destan."

"Don't you think I know that," Destan snapped. He immediately regretted it. He never answered her back. Truthfully, she scared him, and admitting he was scared was something Destan refrained from doing with his entire being. "I guess my plan is," he said as he dusted himself off, rising to a standing position, "to use everything you've taught me, join the alliance, play my part, leave when I have to, and win. It's all about the winning."

"You can't afford to lose. There's no such thing as second place."

Destan looked over his shoulder as the laughter and camaraderie of the seventeen-year old trainees reverberated through the hall as they entered, sparring with each other and attacking the dummies with foolish ferocity. His mother had probably already made her pick for next year so it was a feeble attempt at winning her admiration.

Still, he envied them.

Another year of blissful ignorance. His reality was coming up to slap him harshly in the face.

One of the trainees waved at him, keen to be seen cosying it up with the Head Trainee's son. Destan waved back and beamed with a broad grin plastered ear to ear. _Imbecile,_ Destan thought. _My mother's plan is for me to use everything she's taught me. But I'm not a brick wall. My knife doesn't always hit its target. Sometimes I forget to block a punch._

He knew he wasn't invulnerable and that made him so angry; the rage like red needles stabbing his skin, burning deep to his stomach that twisted with such velocity it made him want to hurl. On the other hand, it also made him want to run away, find a fishing boat and just … leave.

 _I have to win it my way._ Destan went back to fighting his mother, right hook then left, upper-cut then dodging down below, swivelling on the balls of his feet. His plan had to be to use anything other than pure brute strength because he wasn't sure he had it.

He could smile his way, fool others like the kid who wanted his attention purely to gain the coveted spot of volunteer. The idiot believed Destan to be his friend because Destan knew the lines, the facial expressions, the right way of fooling everyone around him.

In some-ways, maybe he'd even fooled his mother.

But he knew, deep down, the biggest fool of them all was himself. Because he did not want to go in the Games and nobody here, except maybe the woman that blamed his pregnancy on him, would stop him if he decided to renounce his status as volunteer.

In two hours time, Destan knew he could make the right decision and save his life.

But he wouldn't. He knew he'd make the wrong decision. As went the story of Destan Moreau's entire existence. _A tragedy, really._

* * *

 **Britta Somerset, 18 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

She felt something shaking. It was quiet at first, distant as if locked away in the background, but slowly it managed to escape and edge its way closer to her. The shaking grew louder. Harsher. Then a voice enveloped the shaking and the two were one.

"Britta!"

She shot upright and clunked her head harsh with the neanderthal in front. Pain spiked harsh in her skull and she felt the dull ringing in her ears as well as the rhythmic thumping behind her eyes.

"Fuck that hurt"" Britta complained. "What the hell d'ya do that for?"

Clark pointed harshly to the clock mounted high on the wall. Britta's eyes widened and she started to laugh then instantaneously regretted it. Her head was not on her side this morning. _Or … afternoon?_

"Shit," Britta stopped laughing and grabbed her clothes, balling them up and wrapping the sheet round her. Something caught her feet and sent her toppling into the sheets hiding another body on the ground. Britta shrieked and then kicked out, catching the mysterious figure in the chin before the two of them erupted into painful laughter. "Why the hell are you on the floor?"

"Because Clark's bed was full!" Violet – one of Britta's closest friends – rubbed her chin with a grimace and gestured to the mess around them. "I thought gays were tidy."

"You thought wrong," Clark chuckled. He threw a pair of underwear in their general direction and it smacked Brita dead-on in the face.

Violet reared her head in disgust. Britta held them to her nose, feigned a deep intake of breath, and released. "Mmm. Ripe."

"Hey fuck you!" Clark yelped, barrelling over towards her, knocking Violet over again and sending himself to the floor. "They're my favourites ones!"

"I can tell," Britta threw them at him and headed for the door. "I'm literally going to die if I'm late. Just wear the clothes you've already got on."

"We aren't wearing any clothes!" Violet yelled.

Britta looked down at herself. _Oh well, I'll blame the heat._ She beamed at her friends and left the house, relishing the sun as it scorched her tanned skin. Behind her she could hear Clark and Violet arguing with each other as they hid their naked bodies under thin sheets. Britta embraced it, twirling once and winking at a bitchy looking giraffe that wandered by.

 _Wind your neck in,_ Britta thought, before she waved enthusiastically at her and began running. Her toe caught a rough patch in the ground and she winced quietly, but the run was distracting herself from the frightening idea of actually being late today. It didn't quite fill her with loads of excitement like she thought it would but she blamed the hangover.

She'd tried to grow accustomed to many a hangover in her day. As well as this usual slinking back to her home in the morning. Only usually it was a bit earlier than this and usually she didn't have to get herself prim and proper for the whole country to watch her. Cameras would be clicking, Four would be revelling and waving and cheering and … _ahhh I can't wait!_

"Seriously, why are you Somersets so fricking fast!?" Violet yelled after her. Britta enjoyed the light bout of laughter that followed Violet's comment on her family. Britta enjoyed that about Violet, more than she enjoyed everyone else in her group of so-called friends. There was an air of actual genuineness to everything she did. Britta valued it because rarely was that something she saw in her circle.

The popular rarely got their popularity through actually being … nice. Though Britta did try, not many looked at her with disdain. Even the poor sweating away in their dear little hovels.

She turned the corner and neared where the Somerset house stood, central to the District, near to where Britta had to be. This was a bonus in her life. They had enough money to afford such a grandiose position which meant even though she had to brush her hair, do her make-up, and maybe shower before all of that to get rid of the smell of vodka and whoever it was she'd slept with last night, Britta would most likely arrive just on time. Perfect as always.

She heard the heavy panting behind her and rounded on the spot, crossing her arms with a grin.

"Oh, Clark. You defy every gay stereotype. You're slow as shit."

He looked quite good for someone Britta knew she'd never be with. She didn't make a habit of sleeping with _everyone_ but the attention was something she relished. Clark at least knew the right things to say about her clothes, so it gave him brownie points in her eyes.

"What's your dad going to say when he sees us like this?"

"Oh, you're not coming in," Britta said, running away towards her front gate and up the path. "You might want to change your underwear. You know, before my big day!" she shouted back to an astonished and naked Clark and Violet, shrouded in nothing but a thin veil of a sheet. She unlocked her door, slammed it shut, and sighed as she leant against the enamelled wood.

It took all but two seconds for the dull thumping to return tenfold and spike behind her eyes. _Give me a sword any day of the week._ She preferred the harsh reality of battling other teenagers her age than the curse of being popular. Hangovers sucked.

She took a step forwards, dragging a hand through the nest that had become her hair, when a voice echoed from upstairs and shot through her skull with such ferocity that Britta almost felt sorry for being late. _Almost._

"BRITTA!"

She laughed.

 _Totally worth it._

* * *

 **These two were fun to write. Probably why the update time has now halved to three days!**

 **Thanks to everyone that's reading and reviewing. Appreciate it all!**

 **Let me know your thoughts and I'll see you with the next District.**


	7. Silver Linings

**Chapter Seven.**

* * *

 **District Five.**

* * *

 **Teak Underwood, 16 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

In the dim morning light, for a moment Teak found his neighbourhood to be a silent haven.

He sat on his doorstep and looked out onto the quiet road. It was a ram-shackled, melancholic sort of road. Each house was unique in its stoop and crookedness. He smiled as a bird drifted past his head and landed on the streetlight not too far from where he sat. Crickets could be heard and a light breeze whistled through the long grass just behind the miniature shop opposite his house. A waft of stone-baked bread drifted through the air and Teak inhaled, relishing in its warm, toasty comfort.

 _In an hour, this will all cease to exist._ District Five would soon wake and today was of course marked in everyone's mental calendar. _Three years. Today, next year and the next. Then I'll be free._ It left him feeling anchored to his sullenness. It was enough time for him to be chosen. It was enough time for his life to come crashing down around him.

Another change, another batch of new faces, another complete upheaval of everything Teak had come to know.

"Morning." Teak looked up to see an old couple – hand-in-hand, one hunchbacked, the other supporting his wife with a subtle sense of care and love – watch Teak from where he was sat. "You live here?" The man gestured with his gnarled walking stick to the house behind where Teak was.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and yawned. _How long have I been up?_ "For the past year. They've been kind to me."

This time it was the older woman who spoke. She had a quieter voice but it pierced through the silence and hit Teak with profound strength. "They tell you to say that?" Her husband placed a hand on her shoulder and Teak saw the warmth that permeated in the air around the two of them. Teak found himself in awe of their relationship. Their commitment to each other. He found it alien, strange, odd, impossible for someone like Teak who had never known anything similar, yet he found it incredible all the same.

"I suppose," Teak again tried to swallow the nervous lump in his throat. Not that he had anything against talking to strangers, but the people in the house behind, the stern, prone-to-cane-children couple that ran the place, he knew what they would think if he found him acknowledging a rebellious thought. Even if it was being given by a geriatric.

"Do they still starve you if you don't clean properly?" The old woman asked. "Those two – especially that young wart-faced woman, her mother knew exactly what to do to make you obey her. Take away the gruel and make the children beg for scraps. It runs in the family. She might be gone, but she still lives on in her daughter."

Teak shrugged his shoulders. "I do as I'm told, I suppose."

"You try and get yourself enough money young man. Do your best to get out of there."

"Come on dear," the old man now piped up, chuckling quietly. "He has to live here. Don't scare him."

"I'm doing nothing that hasn't already been done or said before. It's a curse this place."

Teak found himself nodding. He couldn't help it. It wasn't in his nature to disobey authority or condemn the hand that fed him – albeit sparingly and with nothing but the crumbs from the table if he so much as put a toe out of line. Teak couldn't help but think about the family home that belonged to the Underwoods, only a few blocks away. He could walk there in five minutes. It'd be dark, empty, a pit of his old existence where he spent a few weeks with distracted, unloving parents only to be shipped out when they had to go to work.

He'd never known love, not from his parents directed at him nor towards each other. Maybe that was why he looked at this couple – polar opposites in every sense of the word, but a loving, doting couple nonetheless. It made Teak jealous and also surprisingly inspired. Stability was rare for Teak. In a month maybe he'd be sent packing to another home, or perhaps if he rearranged the kitchen cupboards in the wrong order the petrifying woman inside would kick him out to fend for himself.

For someone that had spent so long wrapped up in the system of lost children, Teak did not know how to do that. These figures of authority, those that had had such a say in his life right from the off, they'd always told him what to do and where to do it. He needed that guidance. As terrible and soul-ripping as it sometimes was.

The old man gripped the woman's hand and kissed it fondly. "Don't think on your childhood, darling. It's a distant memory. This place," and this time he looked at Teak with all-knowing eyes, "isn't forever. It's a page in your whole life. Don't let it define you."

He'd heard the clichés before from other children that had tried to make Teak see this existence for what it was. Temporary. The man was right. It did not define Teak. But it made it hard for Teak to see anything outside of this miserable box when he'd been trapped in it for so long.

"Thank you for stopping by," Teak said politely, trying his best to muster a kind smile. "I best go back. I don't want to wake anyone up. I just thought today, with it being-"

"-oh yes," the old woman seemed to suddenly remember, as if the world wasn't just her house of childhood misery, but the whole country was a place that fed on hurting the most vulnerable, "I do wish you luck. I suppose we are lucky ourselves in a way." She gave her husband's hand a shake. "We saw some terrible things growing up, but nothing like this."

"No," the man shook his head. "Nothing like this."

Teak gave them a wave as they began to slowly walk away and disappear around the corner. The birds had stopped singing and opposite the shopkeeper was preparing to open and sell his wares to an anxious community.

All Teak wanted was today to hurry up, for his childhood to hurry up. There was never any consistency – he'd only just understood who he was in the sense of his own identify, a journey he'd spent a long time trying to piece together. Now he had to deal with this. Face it head on.

The man was right, it did not define who Teak was.

 _Easier said than done,_ Teak thought, as he entered the house to the nightmarish reality that had been his entire life. He just hoped today would be better.

* * *

 **Henley Pereira, 15 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

"Careful."

Henley felt the bead of sweat trickle down the bridge of her nose and _splash_ against the granite table. "Don't breathe over my shoulder," she found herself whispering, though it felt distant. "It makes me-" Henley didn't complete her sentence as she finished the stitch-work and took a step back, exhaling deeply and wiping her forehead.

Elation flooded her stomach though she didn't show it. _Phew._ It was, after all, only simple stitching. But she was learning, and learning fast she'd been told. _Learning fast for someone that is only allowed to do this on the weekends. When no one is looking. Hidden away._ Her elation at a job well done quickly ebbed away, replaced by the tides and rapid biting of the disappointment and anger she felt.

When Marilyn placed a gentle hand on Henley's shoulder in congratulations, Henley realised her body reacted harshly, shrugging it off and stepping away from the medic's table and into the corner of the small wooden hut. "Don't," Henley whispered, this time not out of concentration but out of a sadness borne from the momentary anger. "Just tell me he'll be okay."

"He'll be fine," Marilyn said, laughing as she picked up the dummy's hand and waved it at Henley. "If this were a real fella, he'd be right as rain."

The corners of Henley's mouth twitched upwards and she couldn't help but giggle at the stupid little dummy's hand as Marilyn moved it side to side. "I just wish I could be here full time. I don't see why they won't just let me. It's … it's just frustrating."

Marilyn let the dummy's hand fall down, still and flat against the side of the table. "I know, Henley. But they're your parents. They only want what's best for you and working with me … well it doesn't pay so much."

"It's not all about money. I enjoy being here. Helping."

"The dummies appreciate it," Marilyn joked. This time Henley didn't giggle and Marilyn sighed, moving once again to place a comforting hand on Henley's rigid shoulder. "Give them time. Continue to do as well as you are doing at school. Study, practice and practice another thousand times. And maybe then they'll realise how much you love offering a helping hand to the hurt and vulnerable. Perhaps time is all they need."

Henley didn't respond. Maybe Marilyn was right but it was easier for an outsider to peek in and offer heartfelt sentiment that everything would be _right as rain_ and _sunshine and rainbows_. Henley enjoyed school. She enjoyed burying her head in the hundred books that she'd come across as a child and now a teenager. Learning gave her as much comfort and joy, if not more so, than a thousand friends and companions.

In this tent, Marilyn and the practice dummies were all she really needed to enjoy her life. What was the harm in that? Life was tough but if she had found something that gave her purpose, well why, _why can't I just be allowed to do what I love to do?_

As if hearing her thoughts, which wouldn't surprise Henley given what she'd come to see in Marilyn, the wiser, older woman packed away her first aid kit as she began to speak again. "What are your friends doing today? I wouldn't think it normal for a bunch of teenagers on a day like today to be working. After all, it's a school day. You've been given time out in the sun."

It was a beautiful day but Henley didn't really mind the confines of the tent. She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sure they're doing just fine without me." It was probably true. She loved having the people she trusted around her in the safe environment of a place like school, a place where there were watchful eyes everywhere, but outside, outside was a different game all together.

Marilyn had seen many a tantrum and outburst from Henley when things slipped out of place. Marilyn had a stronger, more grounded disposition towards pain being twisted into anger that latched onto those closest. _My friends … not so much. I don't want to make them hate me._ Henley would rather only see them at school if it meant keeping them as her friends.

And she'd have given anything to never have to go home all together.

Marilyn washed the last piece of surgical equipment before packing the dummy up into the corner and gesturing Henley forwards. She took a tentative step and found herself feeling embarrassed. From elation to anger to laughing to now this depressive funk that seeped into her stomach. She'd been on this rollercoaster over and over again. Sure, she was just fifteen, and there were so many people out there that had it worse. Henley was not the centre of the universe and neither did she believe nor want to be.

But sometimes it was hard to not feel like the world was against her. Her natural reaction was to simply shut away or snap back. And by snapping back, it only made the world want to shut her away itself.

"Your parents are your parents, your siblings are your siblings, and your friends are your friends," Marilyn began to say, tapping the stool next to Henley, who took a seat and looked up at her favourite teacher of them all. The one who gave her the most time in the world. "Sometimes they want what's best for you, other times they need to do what's best for themselves. Like you do. Try not to judge them just because what they might be doing _today_ isn't what they do _tomorrow_ or did _yesterday._ People are fickle beings." She lifted the dummy's hand once more, tucked just behind her stool. "Like this chap. And he loves you being here, Henley. Even if it's only once a week. The fact you show up. It makes a world of difference."

Marilyn just smiled at Henley. She didn't want a response. She knew Henley well enough to know that sometimes she wouldn't give one because she didn't know what to say.

Henley just watched that stupid dummy wave back and forth and found herself beginning to smile, then laugh, and finally wrap Marilyn in a hug, forgetting about today, forgetting about absolutely everything and just relishing _this_ moment.

Sometimes shutting everything out, ignoring what had happened and what might happen in the future, made everything quieter and easier to live. It was a lesson Henley had tried to teach herself. Sometimes she failed, sometimes she made it close to understanding.

And one day, Henley hoped, she'd never have to teach herself how to do it again.

* * *

 **Looking at every SYOT that's coming out at the moment, I'm jealous that they're basically doing the reapings in like two chapters. But – I'm sticking to my guns, I still think this is the best way to introduce tributes so you get to know them before shit hits the fan.**

 **Oh btw, this SYOT was published back in 2018 and because of my rubbish update schedule, it stands to reason that some submitters seem to have vanished from this website. I PM'd nearly everyone and those that didn't respond I gave them three days. There are now seven tributes that have been replaced so please check out the blog for the new faces. (Henley being one of them!) It was done solely because I don't want to write tributes for someone that doesn't actually even go on FF anymore.**

 **Anyway – thanks for all the support. See you with the next chapter!**


	8. Invisible Chains

**Chapter Eight.**

* * *

 **District Six.**

* * *

 **Celestin Elan, 17 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

With every jab of her finger, Celestin felt the fickle annoyance in his chest start to glow red.

Even as Celestin continued to ignore her, eyes stubbornly slammed shut, she continued to poke him in the ribs. _Go away you annoying fuck_ , he thought, as the persistent jabbing began to hurt. _Leave. Me. Alone._

Though his mind was beginning to spiral into anger, when his eyes finally snapped open, gazing into the annoyingly humorous look of his older sister Honora, Celestin simply stared at her, face a blank canvas. "Can I help you?" he drawled.

Honora giggled. "I don't know, can you?"

"Are you bored? Is that why my ribs hurt?"

Again, she giggled that incessantly annoying giggle and shrugged her shoulders. "Aurelius is out. Some big fancy pre-reaping celebration."

"And?" Celestin did not have the time nor enthusiasm for this interaction with his sister. _When do I ever?_ He had a nap to return to, an endless nap really. The pillow, the bed, the feathered duvet. What more could a boy need?

Honora, however, seemed to have different intentions than allowing her younger brother to return to the sweet bliss of the unconscious realm. _Like fucking always._ "And, Cel', that means his room is empty! Think about it – that lovely, ornate cabinet of his, stacked up with all sorts of drinks and snacks. It's any pisshead's dream!"

She seemed ecstatic at the prospect. Celestin just stared at her, hollow eyes as if searching for something inside Honora that would force her to go away. "I'm not a pisshead," was all he had to say, and he shut his eyes again, turning away from his sister and closing his mind off.

Celestin did not care if his older brother was away – yes it saved him from having to look up at Aurelius' nose as it looked down on him, but so what? The snooty prick was off gallivanting with his mindless friends which made them the fools, not Celestin. His parents were probably entertaining guests that were here to visit the illustrious Elan Manor, uptight about the chances of their own children being chosen and shivering at the prospect of one of the elite having to spill their own blood and dirty their own hands amongst the common muck. It was a story Celestin had read over and over again so much so that he knew each page back to front.

He did not care for it nor did he allow himself to be wrapped up in it. He simply liked to nap. Nap, dream, eat and nap again. The world went by rather nicely if he stuck to this delightful regime.

Yet the poking, _the FUCKING poking,_ did not stop. He usually didn't care if someone was happy enough to actually enjoy the mindless existence that Panem lent itself to, but if it interfered with his preferred methods of just letting the world fly by, then Celestin couldn't help but feel his stomach coil with anger.

"Honora, honestly," Celestin opened his eyes and once again stared at her, for a second his eyebrow twitching upwards, allowing himself a visible sign of his flaring annoyance, "if you want to get shit-faced before the Reaping, go right ahead! I honestly could not care what my sister, nor my big brother, nor anyone does. All I ask for is the same courtesy in return."

He actually didn't mind his big sister. She was far more amiable than anyone else Celestin had come into contact with. It didn't stop her from being another bane of his existence, though. So much background noise when all Celestin cared about was fading _into_ the background. He found comfort and solace in being completely irrelevant.

"If it was any other day little brother, I'd leave you alone to share your hopes and wishes with the wallpaper. But today, as you said, is Reaping day! We might be out of the woods but you aren't. There's still the chance an Elan might be chosen and what better way to give an impression than turning up absolutely hammered?" she grinned at him, as if positively ecstatic at the thought of someone being drunk as they drifted to the stage in a dream-like fantasy, unaware they'd actually been chosen for the slaughter. Celestin found some humour in the idea, but that was all it was, an _idea._ Honora clearly enjoyed it for another reason. The rebellious nature of a fuck-you to the Capitol. Authority and Honora Elan did not go hand-in-hand. Celestin found the whole thing exhausting to witness. "I'm not saying it will be you. We're lucky we have the bitch for the mother we do and the asshat of a father that pretends to love her. It's their one and only saving grace. But – you never know. So why not just have a drink to numb it all?"

"I am numb, believe me," Celestin said. "Honestly, I really don't care about today. It's annoying I have to turn up as it is. I could do without the hangover tomorrow when it's all over."

Honora sighed and fell backwards, for the first time seeming to relinquish the idea that she could convince Celestin of doing anything but napping and shutting off the world. Sometimes, Celestin would entertain her, if only it meant escaping from pointless pageantry of the countless parties and festivities that the Elans liked to make themselves popular at. But in his own bed – there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

And hangovers did suck. For someone with Celestin's world-view, he didn't actually like the idea of alcohol or vice. The pain and self-pity just left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Oh well," she finally said, conceding. "Have it your way, stay in your room."

 _Yes. I have another hour before I actually have to try to look presentable, and I'm not wasting it by-_

"I'll just bring the drinks to you!"

Before Celestin could raise his voice in argument, his sister jumped up from where she was, smiled at her brother in high-spirits and skipped out of his bedroom.

Celestin just stared at the open door, mouth agape.

 _Fuck my life._

* * *

 **Maisley Corvac, 14 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

She took a deep breath, eyeballing the crowd of girls around her, with Maisley centre to them, thought carefully about what she was going to say, and-

"Your father is at the Elans."

Maisley closed her mouth and glared at the girl that had just interrupted her. Saoirse was daughter of some aristocrat that paraded around Maisley's house, yet she'd barely gotten to know her at all. The only reason she was invited was because of her last name.

Maisley smiled sweetly at her and laughed. "Isn't that why we're all here? Whilst our parents spend their time at yet another party, I thought I'd host a sort of celebration of my own."

"Celebration-"

Maisley did not give Saoirse the chance to continue speaking before she carried on herself. "As I was trying to say, guess who I heard yesterday on the phone with my dad?" _If he heard me call him dad, not father, boy would I be in for it. But isn't here, as Saoirse had pointed out, he was at another rich kid's family. So dad, dad, DAD!_ "Come on guys, guess!"

She loved this, sitting in the centre of the crowd, people she sort of knew either side of her, people she had heard of sitting either side of them, and people who had the right name opposite her on the other side. Maisley found the idea of being in the centre of them something so fulfilling, so _correct,_ that it made her heart blossom.

"It's someone only the Mayor of District Six," Maisley paused as she stated her dad's profession, the grandiosity of it seeping into her bedroom where she sat on her four-poster bed, balcony to the left, built-in wardrobe to her right, "would know. Think girls, think!"

"Oh, Maisley, I don't know!" Piper chimed.

"Tell us!" Mary – Mariah – Mylie – someone beginning with M said.

Maisley clapped her hands, loving the fact they simply could not guess. "It was. Wait for it, girls. The Head Gamemaker himself! Personal friend of my dad's. And oh it was amazing, he was spilling all the gossip about the Games and though I can't tell you," she tapped her nose, savouring their wide-eyed stare, "it's going to be incredible this year."

"Wow!" Cordelia glowed with excitement.

"Lucky you!" Trinity beamed.

"Yeah," Danica drawled. "Absolutely amazing. Go you."

Maisley glared over at Danica as the rest of the group started to discuss her very important and pressing news. The corners of Danica's lips began to twitch and Maisley couldn't help but reflect the gesture. The two of them shared a silent laugh at the group of rich little pampered girls buying into Maisley's complete lie.

Danica was the only one that saw through Maisley's stories for what they were: stories. But Maisley didn't mind. Danica was loyal. She was actually quite a kind person and she was also the only person that Maisley shared genuine laughter with. When Maisley felt comfortable around someone, no longer was the Mayor's daughter, she was just Maisley. With the rest of these girls though, it wasn't as if Maisley had wanted them in her room. It was expectation. Maisley hated that word: _expectation._ She'd been told all her life what people expected of Alto Corvac's daughter. And so it was always the way; the lies painted a better picture of what expectation looked like than what Maisley genuinely wanted to say.

She'd told so many lies that aside from Danica being here, she'd begun to believe them herself. They always were such fun tales to tell. Truthfully, Maisley knew absolutely nothing about the Games to come. Zilch. Zero. Nada. But that didn't stop the girls from flouncing about the room, begging Maisley to tell them everything.

"It's a secret," Maisley echoed several times until Saoirse; lovely, beautiful, absolute _pain in my ass,_ Saoirse, opened her mouth again.

"That's nothing," she said, grinning as the girls turned away from Maisley to make her the centre of attention. "My mother knows a guy who knows this other guy and pulling a few strings, guess who she is going to be seeing at the next Fall Banquet?"

The girls all seemed to inhale at the same time as the question was dangled in front of them. Danica looked at Maisley. She didn't see her best friend's stare. All Maisley could focus on was the fact her cheeks had gone fiery with annoyance and sheer rage at the _audacity_!

 _If she dares say who I think she's going to say, I will rip her ponytail from her scalp and force-feed the split-ends to her._

"The President!"

 _Oh fuck no._ Maisley visualised the threat she just thought of, but Maisley knew herself and she knew she didn't actually have a violent bone in her little body. She grinned at Saoirse as her eyes fell around the room, absolutely loving the ferocity of sheer delight that all the girls shared in.

"The President!"

"Your mother and the President?!"

"You have to get me an invite!"

Maisley now looked at Danica as the girls tripped over their own voices to get to Saoirse and ask her questions. The two best friends shared something between them and Maisley found her sickeningly false smile begin to drop as all eyes focused on the bearer of today's best news.

"You okay?" Danica mouthed.

Maisley nodded sadly. She knew what she must have looked like to the rest of the District, here in the centre of them all, high above on her rich pedestal. But she'd been born into it. What was she supposed to do – wish for another existence so she could live amongst the dirt and squalor just so people might actually think herself to be a decent human being?

She liked it here with them all, weaving her web of fanciful lies because she absolutely loved telling the stories that other rich airheads fell for. It gave her a sense of her own power as the expectation of her future settled deeper and harsher on her shoulders as she grew older.

One day, she would be the new Mayor of District Six. Her brothers ignored by her dad, her dad hurting his beloved wife beyond recognition, leaving Maisley to bear the brunt of the Corvac name.

"Maisley?" Saoirse asked, snapping Maisley out of her haze. "Tell us more about the Head Gamemaker."

"Yes please," Danica said, smiling a sweet, friendly smile at her best friend. "What was it like?"

Maisley grinned at them all, the circle once again forming correctly. "Well, first of all…"

In her own little palace, Maisley felt invulnerable. Telling her stories, being a child for however long it could last, safe and sound from the reality of this harsh world.

Her stories were a lullaby. Was that really so wrong?

* * *

 **I don't know whether to apologise for updating so quickly or if that's actually a good thing? I'm just really enjoying being back so much and I've genuinely missed writing. Working and real life has meant I haven't been able to write anything, not even just FF, in a loooong time. It's fun!**

 **This marks the halfway point for these pre-Capitol chapters. Yes some of you may prefer Capitol action, but as some have mentioned in reviews, I genuinely believe this offers you so much more to go on for the tributes before they are put into an entirely new situation. I'm loving it anyway.**

 **Again, thanks for all the support. Next chapter begins the last six districts!**

 **p.s. listen to Future Nostalgia by Dua Lipa … iconic album**


	9. Starlight

**Chapter Nine.**

* * *

 **District Seven.**

* * *

 **Bryce Hayfield, 17 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

Zoya's hand felt clammy in his own, sticky with nervous sweat.

Bryce looked at her, sun-kissed skin, adoring hazel eyes, perfection in a person, and felt love and familiarity swim through every vein. "Worried about today?" he asked. It was unlike Zoya to be the one with her head down, dragging her feet awkwardly, playing with bits of gravel as they walked through the central park of their District.

It was a beautiful day, clearly sent as a curse because today was by far, in every sense of the word, _not_ a beautiful day. Zoya sighed deeply and let go of Bryce's hand. _Oh. Was it something I said?_ He immediately felt guilty that he'd brought something up that clearly Zoya, someone he cared for so much, was feeling quite nervous about. He should have just shut up. Kept his mouth closed. Let Zoya dwell in whatever she-

"I'm completely fine, honestly Bryce," Zoya said, seeming to cheer up as if spotting Bryce beginning to worry and over-think. "It's just natural, most likely, for all of us to feel something about today. It's very difficult I suppose to want to be very happy. It sucks that it's such a lovely day out."

Bryce nodded and bit his lip, almost embarrassed that he'd gone straight into thinking it was his fault. "Well I'm glad I've got you here. Last year…"

The thought sent a shiver down his back. Zoya wanted him to see someone – to get help. Though he wasn't alone in his misfortune; hell, he was pretty certain 95% of the District had some kind of heart-wrenching upbringing just because that was the nature of their country. Bryce didn't like to think his pain was anything special. Most of the time he felt like a nuisance bringing anything wrong up. Zoya must have heard it a thousand times and every single time he felt like he was annoying her.

Yet she hadn't left his side. _So maybe she doesn't actually care about all the things that have happened?_ It was a battle he'd had ever since meeting her. All his life he'd wanted someone to listen to him, and now that he had someone to do just that, he felt like he was a burden for those that actually wanted to.

She squeezed his hand as the two of them sat on a wooden bench, painted a light peach colour, settled between blooming flowers where bees went between the bountiful petals and a pond shimmered in the sunlight. This was a happy place, this little snippet of Eden. Bryce found himself thinking though, _always thinking,_ about last year, which is why he knew Zoya continued to clasp heavily onto his hand, as if her worries about today were nothing matched to his own. And again, that only left Bryce feeling guilty.

"She's not here," Zoya said, not harshly, but with vigour, wanting Bryce to at least try to believe it. "She's not around to do that again."

"She'll be there, though," Bryce thought, picturing his mother in the throngs of District Seven, most likely half naked, bottle in hand, make-up lathered on because she thought that was what the men wanted her to look like. Truthfully, it repulsed them all, which is why ever since Bryce's dad had left no one had ever batted an eye at her. And it only made her hate Bryce even more. "I know she'll be trying to find me. It's the first Reaping since I left. Last year … last year she told me that she wished I would be chosen. Can you believe that? Telling your own son?..."

He clenched his eyes shut. Zoya was right. Yes it was a beautiful day in their slice of heaven but it didn't negate the fact that today was the worst day in the history of forever. And it did not change that although Bryce wanted the best for absolutely everyone and felt like he deserved none of that happiness, that it was his own fault everything went wrong in his life, surely a mother should not wish that upon her own son?

It's just not … right? _Is it? Or am I wrong? Did I do something to warrant such hatred?_

"Bryce, Bryce," Zoya kissed his shoulder, resting her cheek against his warm skin. He could feel himself shaking and she placed a hand on his knee, as if telling him to stop, to calm down, that she was here without having to utter a single word. "It's not right what she did and yes she'll be there, she has to be, it's the law, but that doesn't mean you have to go anywhere near her. And when it's done you come find me straight away and we'll come back here. We can actually enjoy it. Then there's the feast – yes it's a bit macabre that we are having a feast to celebrate the fact that we weren't chosen and two poor kids will be on their way to the Capitol, but it'll give us a good distraction. You aren't alone in this, you never have been." Zoya was trying so hard to squeeze the positive attitude out of her skin and let it seep into Bryce's. He absolutely cherished that about her. Every fibre of his being loved this girl that had given him the time of day when he'd believed no one ever would.

It was a constant battle between wanting to love himself and finding it impossible to do so. But with Zoya maybe he was starting to see something that actually was … good. Worthy. Because if a girl like Zoya could be with someone like Bryce, then clearly there was something going for him. Something worth keeping around. Maybe he'd never hear it from his mother, and even after everything, even though he believed he hated her, he knew he'd always love her. And part of him would always be jealous of Zoya – jealous of all those that had such a foundation behind them.

 _But as long as I have Zoya, I have my rock._ "You're right," he said, kissing her and holding her close. "I don't need to think about her. I don't need to do anything right now except be here with you."

Today was just another day, another reaping, another poor batch of children sent to the Games. It was a tragedy. It was unfair. But if Bryce could just cling to Zoya, think about her as he stood there waiting for it to be over, then it would be. Over and done with.

 _Everything will be alright._

* * *

 **Sinta Montero, 16 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

The five of them took up the entire length of the brick wall, legs dangling down, swaying to and fro in the wind. Sinta and her best friends spent every Reaping morning here, close to where Sinta lived yet far away enough that her closest friends didn't have to spend ages walking to reach their hangout.

Seven was a large District, Sinta had been around a lot of it, tried to see as much of where she lived as she possibly could, yet there was always something else to see, other people to hear and help, a world not completely unboxed.

She could tell the conversation was dying down, the rest of them swiftly floundering into melancholy that whilst Sinta completely understood, she really did not want those closest to her to have to feel. "Gia, tell us about that time with your mother and your sister. You know, when she got caught with that little bottle of wine and your brother found it hilarious. I can't remember how it finished."

Gia seemed to look a bit uncomfortable at Sinta's request. The others only looked at the girl, head down as she began to open her mouth and relay the story. If Sinta thought about it carefully, Gia's sister seemed to always have a bottle of wine in her hand, or alcohol seemed to infuse every single family story that Sinta had managed to get Gia to spill. Sometimes it was hard work, but eventually the girls usually told her everything. All Sinta wanted to do was lighten the mood and hearing tales about family usually brightened Sinta's day – there was so much she could say about her own parents – so she never quite understood why others didn't feel the same.

Those places in Seven she hadn't fully seen, the bits tucked away on the edges, or hidden behind dirty gates, Sinta knew perfectly well what dwelled there. A few of the girls sat on the wall next to Sinta, listening intently to Gia as she fumbled over her words, came from behind those gates. Sinta knew it was disease-riddled, rat-infested, and it made Sinta's heart break. She knew she had it lucky where she lived and she knew with the way her parents were, there was never really anything Sinta couldn't get if she just asked for it.

It made her feel angry, almost; angry that the world hadn't dealt everyone the same hand. It wasn't fair to these beloved girls that she cherished so much and just wanted the best for. Maybe there was a reason every story about Gia's sister involved a bottle of wine – but Sinta couldn't see it, not really. The picture was there but it was blurred around the edges. It didn't quite come together in Sinta's mind.

"Do you reckon she'll get through it quicker this time?" Evy interrupted Gia, who when Sinta properly looked over at her face, she could spot that there was a tear rolling down the bridge of her nose.

Sinta ignored Evy's question and immediately jumped down from the wall, scurrying over to Gia and leaping up to sit next to her. She put an arm round her friend's shoulder and held her tightly, squeezing her to let her know Sinta was there for her, always there as a friend and companion. "Oh Gia, I'm sorry. It was insensitive of me to ask you to tell us that story. I didn't know it was so hard for you to tell. I just thought – well I know it's Reaping day. I know we're all so scared." _And honestly, I am. Maybe I can pretend I'm not by trying to cheer everyone else up, but that doesn't make me a fool. I'm absolutely terrified._ "But I just thought there was a way of lightening the mood. I thought it was a funny story. Not a sad one."

Gia sniffled and wiped her eyes, laughing quietly. "It's okay Sinta. You're right, it's a horrible day but what we shouldn't do is just sit here with our heads down." She turned to Evy, who was actually the person Sinta spent most of her time with as she lived the closest, someone who had her own issues with her dad, but again Sinta maintained that if you just _talked_ , then everything could become better. _Maybe I just don't understand it completely…_ "Evy, you're totally right. I really do hope she gets through it. Last year, do you remember," Gia began to giggle, much brighter now, face beginning to lighten up with colour which made Sinta's heart melt. This was where she felt most comfortable, the sound of her friends laughing the noise that made her entire body buzz with positive energy, "she swallowed a bee as she called out the boy's name. It almost made it hilarious if it hadn't been for…"

"Now now girls, let's try not to dwell on what happened last year. We just have to think about our chances and how low they are and we can get through this." Sinta squeezed Gia's hand and intertwined her fingers with Evy's as the other girls looked at their leader – not a self-appointed title, Sinta thought, but she'd been looked upon as the figurehead of their little group since the beginning – and they all held each other closely.

Sinta felt her entire body radiate with a warmth that didn't feel right given what today was, but nonetheless Sinta embraced it as she sat with her friends, none of them speaking, but none of them looking defeated. It might be true that she didn't quite understand why Gia had just cried, or why Evy wouldn't invite her to her house, or why they didn't speak so fondly of those they should have loved ever so dearly, but right now in this moment Sinta didn't mind.

All she ever wanted was for people to be happy and loved, and the people she had next to her were those very people she wanted the most for.

 _You'll all be safe, today,_ Sinta thought. _We'll get through this together._

* * *

 **I'm sorry I literally have nothing else to do I can't help myself.**

 **Though I'm not hearing from everyone who has a tribute in this story (and honestly that's completely fine, I remember back when I wrote SYOTs and sometimes I'd get quite moody about reviews and not want to write, but I'm actually writing this because I want to…) it's really nice to hear your thoughts. I do feel out of practice with my writing so it's great that you seem to enjoy it!**

 **We are getting there… I'm loving these tributes, honestly! These are two brand new additions btw, replacing the old D7. Hope you like them as much as I do!**


	10. Child's Play

**Chapter Ten.**

* * *

 **District Eight.**

* * *

 **Castor Velboa, 17 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

He entered the bakery and eyed the counter longingly. His nose was the first to react – picking up sweet scents of caramelised treats, softly baked bread and the luscious fruit-baked cakes and confectionaries. Then his stomach followed and did its usual rumble – the tell-tale sound of another boy amongst hundreds and thousands that looked so hungrily at these goods he would never be able to afford.

It almost made him dislike the round-faced baker but Castor couldn't bring himself to do it. He was making an honest living for himself, eyes full of life and mirth and all around he just seemed a decent person. There was a woman with two small children in front of Castor as the bell rang throughout, signalling that he had just entered the property. Immediately Castor took note, logging it mentally and then looking over the baker's large shoulder to where there was only one other exit, towards where he imagined the kitchen was.

To his left, shelves were packed high of tinned goods and small packets of rolls and loaves of bread tied in paper bags with string. Piles of fruit were in wicker baskets and one of the little children in front kept trying to snag an apple but his mother would smack his hand away as she dealt with the baker.

 _Tick, tick, tick,_ Castor thought as the room he was in formed a cohesive map inside his mind. The bell tolled again as Castor took a step forwards, nearing the counter as the woman began to move aside. One of the children turned to Castor, eyed him curiously and then began to giggle. It made Castor's heart warm. He looked sideways to the apples and grinned at the little boy. "You want cake, believe me," Castor said.

The little boy only laughed as his mother tugged him away. Castor watched the family leave the baker's and wondered where they were headed, what part of the District they lived and if that family had ever really known anything difficult in their lives. He didn't really blame them – if they had money, then why would they ever think to live differently? It was just the way the world worked. It functioned on complete luck and Castor was just one of those thousands left with so little of it.

"And for you?" The baker had a jolly voice as Castor took his final step to the counter. His eyes could just about register the bread knife on-top of a chopping board, covered in crumbs where a row of half-cut bread rolls were stacked haphazardly. Whilst this man didn't really look like the type to use it, Castor had seen far worse throughout his life. "We've got a Reaping special on for those eligible. Two cakes for the price of one. It's the least we can do."

 _What a nice guy,_ Castor thought honestly. He hadn't actually planned on walking into the bakery today. He hadn't really planned anything as he'd left his family to their meagre breakfast and took a light stroll towards the centre. Something had pulled him here, though. Something that over-powered his mind telling him to just move on, given what today was, don't risk a spectacle, not with security so high, but Castor just couldn't help himself.

He blamed the smell. It was just so damn good.

"Hey kid," the man continued to say as Castor continued to silently ponder his choices, knowing full well the small coin in his pocket could barely afford a quarter of a cream-cake, "how old are you?"

"Seventeen," Castor said. "And yeah before you say it, I know I'm almost there."

"Try and think about that is all I can say. Two more of these days and you're free of it."

Castor smiled at the man. He really was trying to be a gentle soul but he was clearly from a privileged background. In the harsh, claustrophobic edges of Eight, there were of course other bakers. But they rarely offered much more than stale bread and if they had cake, no way did it smell this good or look so delicious. He was well-off and all he could do was look with pity at Castor.

And Castor could only do the same, because he mumbled an apology, swiped a bag of bread rolls from the stack on the counter underneath a sale sticker – clearly expiring soon – and darted towards the door. The baker yelled and the man behind him fumbled over his words, shocked and clearly disgusted with Castor, as the boy managed to throw open the door and hurtle out. He picked up the pace until he neared a corner in the road and slowed down. If a Peacekeeper was nearby, Castor knew better than to look suspicious. There was a lot of kids and adults that had been called on for no reason than wearing the ripped, raggedy clothes they wore because those with privilege could easily be bullies without igniting any sense of guilt whatsoever.

Castor knew about guilt. It ripped into his stomach as he bit into a roll, savouring its goodness, enjoying and absolutely despising the delicious nutty aftertaste as he swallowed the chunk and continued down the alley-way. The man had been delightful. The family in front of him; those kids were sweet and cheery. His family had no idea he did this because all Castor wanted to do was support them; from his love grew an innate fear for anything wrong happening. His parents were naïve in a sense – they thought their hard-work was enough to feed a family of five. It wasn't. How could it ever be?

It didn't mean Castor didn't feel things. He hadn't left his house with the intention to steal but it had just happened. Impulse taking over. Putting his family above the needs of that baker or others that might have bought those rolls. Hell, for all Castor knew they could have ended up chucked out and left for the animals anyway.

Nothing changed for Castor. He would do it again, he knew he would. Part of him relished the adrenaline, part of him despised himself for feeling anything good from it. He knew that he was pushing his luck. That sooner or later he would get what was coming to him. He just needed to get through today, get through next year, and _think_ about things.

Maybe there was a better way. Maybe he could be both a protective big brother and a decent, well-rounded human being.

For now, he couldn't see it. He just hoped karma wouldn't come to bite him in the ass. Maybe, just maybe, luck would be on his side for once.

* * *

 **Armina Rione, 15 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

Armina rolled her eyes as Rian continued to drawl on and on. At first, Armina had been interested in what her friend had to say, now it just sounded like noise. Annoying noise.

"-anyway, my dad is thinking of throwing a party the eve before the Games start. Wanna come over?"

"Are you for real?" Armina finally said, recoiling at the fact of having to watch the Games, let alone celebrate their existence. "Oh yes, I'd love nothing more than to get drunk eight hours before two of our own get ripped to shreds."

"They might not die straight away, Armina," Rian spoke with enough annoying verve it almost sounded like she genuinely believed what she was saying. Armina sometimes found it quite endearing, but today when her nerves were biting away, tugging at her stomach and the smile that she wanted to portray, she did not have the energy for it. Rian continued, "Besides, what if it's you? Or Felicity?" She jabbed a finger into the side of their other friend. She was too busy playing idly with her hair, twizzling it round a finger to notice until she jumped up at Rian's annoying touch.

"Quit it bitch," Felicity complained, stroking her side. "Armina's right."

 _She doesn't even know what I was saying…_ "Thank you, Felicity," Armina smiled, straightening her back. They were sat on Rian's bed. She had the nicest house, the biggest bedroom, a cute little make-up table, so why not pretend today wasn't a thing and act like the teenage girls they were supposed to be. "Besides, all sarcasm aside, it's kind of disgusting throwing a party for the Games. You don't even like them."

"So?" Rian shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not going because I like the Games, I'm going because there's alcohol and all the adults will be too drunk to notice that we are having any."

"Sounds good to me," Felicity laughed. "Will there be boys?"

 _These girls are incessantly annoying._ Armina wanted to rip into them, but she also knew that whilst yes they did cause her a whirlwind of aggravation most of the time, they were her best friends, and she didn't want to alienate them. Armina took a deep breath, thinking carefully before she spoke, and this time turned her attention to Felicity who was once again vapidly playing with the knots that she'd made in her hair.

"Maybe it's best we just don't talk about the Games until we're safe from today?" Armina suggested, genuinely believing that was probably the best way to be. "And for your information, Felicity, boys really aren't the saving grace of our universe. We can exist without them."

"You might be able to," Felicity snorted.

Rian nodded. "It's not the actual boy I need." She made a crude gesture and Felicity snorted even louder. Armina found herself chuckling lightly and stopped herself, the smile trying to tug at the corners of her lips but she repressed it and just stared at her two immature friends. Armina wouldn't be without them for the world – truthfully she wouldn't be without anyone for the world, she needed this sort of attention and socialization to simply get by and _survive._ Maybe it was a shallow existence, maybe it was important to be independent enough to not need someone, but she wasn't ignorant to the fact that being alone left her feeling a certain way she did not want to feel.

Even if she couldn't stand the vulgarity of some of the kids her age, or the idea that they should drink at fifteen, or anything for that matter that didn't sit well with Armina's stomach. She went along with it because the alternative was so much worse.

"Oh, lighten up, Armina," Rian said, nudging her.

She felt something feathery and soft hit her in the back of the head and gawped silently at the pillow that Felicity had in her hands. "Did you just hit me?" Armina asked.

Felicity continued grinning at her. All she ever had was boys on her mind so it was astounding to actually see Felicity thinking about anything else or paying attention to someone that wasn't her own reflection. "We love you, Armina, but god you can be such a bore."

"At least there's more than air between my ears."

"Burn," Felicity continued to giggle, tightening her grip on the pillow. "Look you're right we shouldn't think about today so let us actually try to think about something else. Who cares if Rian's dad wants to celebrate the mass slaughter of children? If it's not us, let us remain ignorant."

"Charming," Armina said, but she could see Felicity's point.

Maybe she had to put her money where her mouth was and do something better than sitting here talking about not discussing the Games, but allowing her mind to drift to such sad ideas. Armina picked up a soft cushion, a silk-bow adorning the pink lettering and she felt her stomach curl. _Sometimes it's not just boys that are annoying, girls are just as bad._ She laughed as she smacked Felicity in the shoulder, a little bit too hard that she fell off the bed with an _oof._

Rian erupted into laughter that catapulted her onto Armina who struggled to fling her off her back. Felicity composed herself on the carpet and immediately launched herself into the fray of teenage best friends distracting themselves from the slim prospect that one of them could actually be carted off to the Capitol today.

Rian and Felicity never seemed to buy into that fact. Armina couldn't stop herself from thinking of anything else.

She needed these two girls as much as they needed her, if truth be told. Armina knew that and sometimes regretted that about herself. _But right now, it's not about me, it's not about them, it's about anything and everything else!_

The pillows had been discarded now. Felicity ended up back on the carpet. Rian bumped her head on the table. And Armina grew so winded from laughter that everything hurt but in a really good way. A joyous way.

Perhaps it was possible for Armina to forget and just be Armina. Was there anything really wrong with that?

* * *

 **Haven't got anything to really say at this point. These two are brand new as well!**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	11. Souvenir

**Chapter Eleven.**

* * *

 **District Nine.**

* * *

 **Spelt Brassard, 16 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

He felt the gentle patter of rusty water trickle down from the pipes above, echoing throughout the cavernous room packed full of machinery. Bits of metal and gears that Spelt didn't really understand whirred around him and above his head. A small drop of water landed on him, dripped slowly down his neck and left a chill down his spine. Despite the whir of the machinery, there was nothing to be heard, nothing to distract Spelt nor make him feel breathless from the hum of a busy crowd or packed District.

Down here it was just him and him alone. And the rats, of course.

Spelt smiled as he ripped into a bread roll that his mother had made for his breakfast. As of an age that made him eligible to be reaped today, it was the one day of the year that Nine's authority – harsh and dictatorial – actually allowed a minute display of tenderness. It felt silly given the fact that it was only for something so callous as a Reaping, but a lot of kids enjoyed that they weren't expected to work. Spelt actually enjoyed keeping his hands busy and had volunteered to pick up another shift. It left him with something to do. Most kids would go and find their friends and occupy themselves with something – anything – to distract from the fear and gut-wrenching anxiety. Spelt didn't really have any of that. Work was the distraction for him. A welcome one.

He licked his fingers as he finished the bread roll and smiled at the warm bits of dried fruit that filled his belly and left him feeling only half-full. They didn't have much the Brassards but they had a tender, familial love that left Spelt feeling happy. He thought of his mother distracting herself over the cooking bowl – maybe having a bad day, or perhaps a good one – and a sad sort of smile pulled at the corner of Spelt's lips. He felt for her, he really did. Even after sixteen years of losing Spelt's twin brother at birth, she still longed for the pitter patter of another child's feet against the cold, cobbled floor. Spelt tried to be enough for her and she was by all means the most loving mother a son could have asked for. But that didn't mean he didn't occasionally notice the way she would lose herself in her melancholy, staring at Spelt with a longing in her eyes that he could never fulfil.

He understood it but it didn't make things easier. Another reason why Spelt preferred keeping himself busy at work. He had no friends as such. Down here in the rusty maze of pipes and complicated gears, Spelt enjoyed the hum of man's technological mastery.

There was a squeak as Spelt took a step forwards and the sad smile that had been on his face as he thought of his mother quickly vanished. In its place a light laugh left his lips as he bent under a pipe, pushing down on its red-coloured metal to ease himself into the crevice between a few of the larger bits of machinery below the factory's main floor.

He heard the squeak again, louder this time. "Where are you little guy?" Most of the time it wasn't just Spelt left with his thoughts and the humming of a live factory. This was the dark habitat of the rats and mice. Sometimes he felt like he was trespassing, not the other way around. That it wasn't fair for management to ask him to flush them out, catch them, dispose of them through any means necessary. It left Spelt with a bitter taste in his mouth. What made these small creatures any less significant than the harsh, brutish ways of the men above? Spelt never actually asked that question. He didn't want to get hit or lose his job and stop being able to support his parents with his upbringing. Besides, he wasn't really sure how to ask such a question to people that looked so stern and irritable.

Another reason why he preferred rats, mice and machinery. They didn't have a tendency to pull such disgruntled expressions at anything he might have said.

"Come on," Spelt continued, bending down even lower this time that his knee scuffed against the concrete. "I'm sure your friends have spoken about me. When have I ever listened to those idiots that want me to hurt you? I would never." He realised how foolish he would sound if someone actually heard him speaking to a rat. Yet Spelt didn't really mind. This job was seen as lower on the food chain even for a factory that loved to exploit the desperate. He never quite understood humanity's innate fear for rodents. Most people looked at them with either distaste or actually ran away. Spelt found them, like he did machinery, a blessed distraction from reality.

He took another tentative step forwards so he didn't accidentally step on something and felt his foot brush against a snare he'd set the other day. Spelt leaned closer and grinned warmly at the little rat that eyed him curiously, his nose twitching at the little bits of rope intertwined together.

Spelt had been given all sorts of rat poison and ways of flushing them out inhumanely. They had never actually made it down here. Spelt would do anything to help his parents like they'd helped him, but he'd rather lose his job than bring those things down with him. Maybe that was why he had no friends, because he found it easier to talk to things that weren't so difficult to comprehend and emotions that weren't always so obvious to understand, but so what? Spelt honestly didn't care what others thought of him. He had a heart and he always listened to what it had to say.

"I don't think my parents would like it if I took another one of you guys home," Spelt said as he managed to work the rat into the small cage he had by his side. It seemed cautious at first but when it realised there was no chance of danger, it scampered into the cage with enthusiasm. "Don't worry. I'll take you somewhere nice and safe."

If given the choice, Spelt would have spent all day down here rather than head up to the human world, where today marked the day where two of them would be whisked away to the Capitol, treated like the very animals that they despised. But he did not have that choice. He hurried along with the rat, taking care not to knock it against the pipes and made his way back up onto the ground floor.

Sunlight burned his eyes for a second, dizzying him. The rat squeaked again and Spelt smiled. _Don't worry,_ Spelt thought. _There's a lot worse out there. I haven't and nor will I ever be a part of it._ He continued through the factory and safely released the rat away from the grounds.

One down, however many more to go. But not today.

Today was different.

Today was a special kind of cruel.

* * *

 **Iva Giorgi, 17 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

"Slower, Iva, no – no I –"

"Mum," Iva said, picking up the trowel and shaking it, "it's soil, it's a flower, what do you think is going to happen?"

Her mother chuckled and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It was baking hot, almost suffocating with the sun glaring down and the two Giorgi women with nothing but scuffed up hats to protect themselves. Her mother seemed to enjoy it whilst Iva on the other hand hated it. But if her mother liked it, then Iva could stomach the blistering weather.

"The flowers are only going to grow if you want them to, Iva." She moved closer to her daughter and took the trowel out of Iva's hands. "Nature isn't stupid. If you care for the flowers, they'll blossom. If you will them to die, then nothing will happen."

Iva just stared at her mother. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," Iva repeated. What else was she supposed to say? Her mother could go on – heart of gold, skin callused through years of hard work and gruelling existence – but Iva was hardly anything like her. She would hurt anything or anyone that dared lay a hand on this precious woman, more precious than Iva herself, but that didn't mean she had to look at a bed of flowers and feel anything except _what is the point?_

"See," her mother began to say, patting down the soil, sprinkling an array of different seeds and levelling the topsoil so it allowed room for growth. "It needs a lighter touch."

Iva continued to watch her mother work and admired the spirit the woman had. Truthfully, Iva was almost jealous. She had a nice word to say about anyone and everyone despite everything they'd been through together. Their lack of anything material except a bit of soil and a wooden shack on the outskirts of the District left much to be despised and envied, but Iva's mother had little of that. It had rubbed off enough on Iva for her to feel nearly the exact same way. As long as people stayed out of her business, didn't try to stick their noses where it didn't belong, then it suited Iva just fine.

"Are we walking to the Square together?" Iva's mother asked her daughter as she continued to work on the flowers.

"Yes," Iva said. "Why wouldn't we?"

"You might have arranged otherwise? A lot of kids seem to find comfort in being with each other."

"Those are the other kids," Iva said. "I'm fine walking with you."

Her mother laughed heartily. "I'll try not to embarrass you."

Iva smiled – it wasn't anything major, nothing loud or bright or overly positive, but a smile nonetheless – and picked up another trowel to help her mother. She felt guilty letting her do all the hard work. Even if she didn't quite understand the point, Iva knew the _right_ thing to do was to put in the effort needed.

"It's been a while since I went to school, you know."

"I do," her mother sighed. "I don't mean it to be this hard, but if school isn't made compulsory and right now being in this predicament we're in, I just can't justify you going. I am sorry, Iva, truly I-"

"-it's fine. I don't need to go."

"But your friends?"

Iva shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "Haven't had the time to make them." _Or the energy._ She didn't mean anyone in this District – especially the other impoverished, hard-working kids – any harm, but that didn't mean she had to make her acquaintance with any of them. It had always just been Iva and her mother, through thick and thin, side by side, facing the world off. Iva knew her mother didn't see it that way but it was hard for Iva not to. "Some of the girls … they talk funny. The boys too. It's like they don't understand where we live, what we have to do every day. It's hard not to find it irritating."

"You sound like you're my age, Iva."

For a moment she found herself getting embarrassed but smothered that quickly. Even around her mother – the light of Iva's life – she sometimes felt like she didn't want to give too much away. She might take it in the wrong direction, or read too much into something that just wasn't there. Iva didn't need the hassle.

"I just mean they make things so much more complicated than they need to be." Iva heard her voice growing louder, firmer as she thought about the shallowness of some of the children, some of the kids she was sure didn't have their fingers in the mud or were at risk of slicing open skin if they weren't too careful especially when there was less food going around and money was scarce. "I don't need that place. I'm fine working with you. It's not right for you to do everything."

"You help me more than you know."

Iva could hear noise begin to rise from the small wooden fence they'd erected a couple of months ago. A few metres down the dirt path, a family was leaving their house, a teenage girl Iva recognised running ahead to catch up with another familiar face. Iva watched the two of them giggle and link arms, traipsing ahead of their families.

She wondered what they were thinking about, or what they were discussing, and for a moment she thought they noticed her looking over at the two of them. She immediately looked back down in the mud and made her hands busy. The last thing she needed was for them to recognise Iva and potentially walk over and _speak_ to her. Iva knew what to say, how to be polite, how to actually be the decent human being she'd been raised to be.

But that didn't mean she wanted them to, nor anyone for that matter.

 _It's me and my mother,_ Iva thought as the two of them put their trowels away and took a step back to admire their work. It looked like nothing had actually changed, in Iva's opinion, but her mother was beaming with pride and for that Iva felt the pit of her stomach glow a little. _I have to be here for her. I'm all she has, and she is all I have. I wouldn't change it for the world._

* * *

 **I can't promise that once we get past these pre-reaping chapters that updates will be daily like they currently are. But right now we are literally three districts away so I'm trying to keep up the pace.**

 **I do apologise to those that I can see really are trying to catch up and then I go and post another chapter – it means a lot to see everyone reading and reviewing!**


	12. Summer Rain

**Chapter Twelve.**

* * *

 **District Ten.**

* * *

 **Shual Armenteros, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

It was a miserable morning. A cloud that spanned the usually blue, vacant sky loomed above Ten with an eerie sense of foreboding. Yesterday it had been boiling to the point where Shual had found it difficult getting back from the centre on horseback, clothes clinging to his skin, sodden with sweat. Tomorrow, Shual knew just to tease them all it'd be sweltering once more, when life returned to normal for Shual and the rest of them, where work became the forefront of his life and everything else background noise.

 _But today…_ Shual hated to sit idly by as the minutes trickled down into hours that slowly counted by on the mental clock he kept in his head. He was outside the barn where they kept some of their animals, sat on a stump from a freshly cut tree they'd used for kindling the other day. There was an electricity in the air, something sad yet mystifying, the grey blanket above ready to pour and pour harshly.

"We have to walk in this?" Gawain, Shual's best friend, seven years his senior, said as he gestured to the dark sky. "Can we not use a horse? It'll be quicker."

"No," Shual said, dismissing the idea, yet quietly wishing it could be otherwise. "If we leave in about thirty minutes, we'll make it in time. There's not much else we can do but wait."

"It's boring."

"Yes."

"So let's do something," Gawain complained.

"Like?" Shual waited for him to say something but his best friend just shrugged his shoulders and waved in the air, shooing the thought away. "Besides, you aren't even eligible today."

"Shouldn't you be, like, quaking in fear or something? Hugging a cow for comfort? That's what I'd be doing right about now. I can't believe I went through six years of this hell."

"You're a hero," Shual's voice was deadpan, staring at his friend and then the clouds as they began to open and thick, cool droplets of water fell to the ground below. "I don't really think about it, I suppose. It is what it is."

"What an oddly cold way of looking at the possibility of dying."

Shual shook his head calmly. "You just said it yourself. Possibility. Why bother wasting my time on something just because it's only possible? I'd prefer to focus on the inevitability that _tomorrow_ we have a whole day of work ahead and nothing is ready." He looked at the large expanse of open grass around them, trees in the distance, farmland belonging to his family and a few others that lived on the very outskirts of Ten. With so much going on in Shual's life, and so many people that shirked their responsibilities, something like a Reaping day genuinely felt like nothing more than a silly distraction. The only reason he gave it any thought was because it meant he couldn't be kept busy with work, and that his best friend wouldn't shut up about it.

 _And Jemima. Don't forget Jemima._

He thought of the poor little girl as the light pitter patter of footsteps broke the hammering of the relentless rain. "Shual, it's cold out here. Hi, Gawain."

"How you doing, Jemima?"

Shual's younger sister – thirteen years old – smiled at Gawain and then once again returned to look at Shual. "Mum and dad say you should come in, the both of you. For once they're in agreement."

"That's a first," Shual said seriously. At the look on Jemima's face, eyes wide open, a clear tremble in her lip, Shual's heart warmed just a little, the tightness in his face easing enough for him to stand up from the tree stump and pat it kindly. "Come on, sit. If there's one thing Gawain is good for, it's a distraction."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Jemima chuckled and did as her elder brother asked. She swung her legs back and forth, head tilted backwards as she opened her mouth to let the raindrops wash her face. "I actually kind of like it out here."

"Why?" Shual asked. He himself was the exact same – sun, rain, snow, hail, it didn't matter so long as it didn't get in the way of being productive. "You said it yourself, it's cold."

"It just feels real, you know. Against my skin. It's easier to focus on the rain than on what's coming up in a few hours."

Once again, Shual's stomach twisted. He genuinely didn't care about the prospect of himself being reaped and that wasn't because he didn't think it was impossible, or that he wasn't scared, or that killing children was a hobby of his; no it was simply because the chances were so low that with a mind like Shual's that worked on actualities and cold, harsh _fact,_ being reaped just didn't line up.

He was so focused on tomorrow's long list of things that needed doing, it just did not matter.

But Jemima was here, sat in front of him, obviously scared of what might happen, and Shual was too. Because her odds were even lower, yet the fear in his heart was palpable. _What if she is chosen … she can't … she doesn't …_

"Shual?"

His sister's voice snapped him out of the dark possibilities that swarmed his mind. _Don't think that. It's practically impossible that she will be chosen._ "Sorry. I just … sometimes get caught up in my head."

"We've noticed," Gawain laughed, smiling at Jemima who chuckled back. "It's alright bud to be nervous."

"I'm not, though," Shual said. "At least, I don't think I am."

Jemima wrapped him in a hug, her arms tight around his waist as Shual closed the gap, placing a hand on the top of her drenched hair. He felt the sibling love between the two of them and embraced it comfortingly, allowing for one moment a break in his otherwise clean-cut disposition, where the world wasn't so black and white and things didn't always need to be analysed and looked at in a way where everything was a distraction from Shual's work.

Jemima could be called a distraction, but she wasn't. _She's my sister._

Gawain, for all his noise, wasn't a distraction either, not really. _He's my best friend._

A thick drop of rain splashed against the back of his head and trickled down his spine, running a shiver down his back that made Jemima laugh as she watched her brother twist uncomfortably. "It's your last year, Shual. Your last year."

Shual grimaced at the thought. For a moment, tomorrow's work did not matter, it lingered on the peripheral. For all his complaining that no one really did enough work, Shual knew he preferred to do it himself anyway because he always did a better job. But today wasn't like that. Today, Shual was just one of thousands put in the exact same position, and if he was chosen, it wasn't like he actually knew what he was doing.

None of them did.

* * *

 **Carys Lavell, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

"Stupid, fucking, useless piece of-"

"Carys!" Her fist halted in mid-air, two inches from the ripped open cheek of the dummy in front of her, haphazardly erected on a wooden stick. It stood next to another dummy, and another, a long line of the miserable looking things far away enough from her house so her parents couldn't see.

She looked at her younger brother, Hale Lavell, dark brown eyes blown-wide with surprise. Her heart was hammering away in her chest, banging at her ribs, adrenaline firing in every vein. Sweat left her choppy hair clinging to her scalp in angry desperation. This whole idiotic picture screamed angry desperation.

"What?" Her voice came out harsher than she'd intended. She regretted it instantly. "I mean … what?"

"You shouldn't say things like that. Those words are just plain mean."

"It's a fucki- it's a dummy, Hale. It can't hear me."

"No but I can," he shook his head, clearly bothered by Carys' brazen attitude towards her lifeless punching bags. "And I don't like it."

She sighed, swiping away at a strand of hair that got caught in the breeze. It was beginning to rain and quite hard at that but she refused to head back home just yet. Today always reared ugly thoughts in her head, the twisted scabs and cuts on her arms and hands blistering red despite there clearly being no trace of pain, just by the mere mention of what today was. She needed this distraction. Angry desperation it might be, but Carys didn't give a shit what it looked like.

"I apologise, alright? I shouldn't swear."

If it were anyone but Hale, the word apologise, or sorry, or anything along those lines would have had to have been ripped out of her cold, dead throat. But Hale was Hale. She owed him a lot, despite his young years and sunny disposition. Such a contrast to his elder sister yet it didn't stop him from loving her all the same. And she loved him. Deeply.

"I just want you to be alright, okay Carys." He wasn't an idiot, though. The kid was smart. Acing all his classes at school. It was why he didn't work on the farm just yet. Usually, like Carys had done, kids sped through school on a fast-track system to pump them out into real life which meant _work, work, work_. But not Hale. It only meant Carys had to work twice as hard. "I know what today does to you."

"Today can bite my-" She caught herself this time, watching Hale's eyes narrow, before he started to laugh and clapped her on the back. "I just mean that today doesn't matter. Not really. The Capitol can suck my-"

"Carys!"

 _Oh for fuck's sake._ She decided to keep her mouth shut as Hale took a step back to let her return to beating the living hell out of the dummy. A scab ripped open on her hand but she barely felt it as the rain mixed with the light drops of blood and the tattered mess that oozed out of the dummy's opened fabric. She only hit harder as the rain became relentless in its downpour, drumming the earth harshly. She knew Hale wanted to go back indoors but she just couldn't, _I can't face it,_ it was so much easier to be out here and distract herself from everything.

"Uh-oh."

She heard Hale speak but didn't quite register it at first. The dummy split open as she high-kicked it in the chest. She lacked any sort of technique really. It was a messy display, but Carys didn't care. Her heart continued to pound in her chest and she enjoyed the throbbing headache behind her eyes, skull ringing. It made her feel connected to something and that something was simpler and easier than the mess of everything else behind her.

"Volunteering today, Lavell?"

This time she couldn't fail to pick up on a voice. It wasn't Hale's. It wasn't either of her parents'. And it wasn't any of her friends because no one stuck around Carys long enough for her to make any.

 _It's because of your haircut,_ Hale had joked many times.

 _No. It's because they're all fucking idiots,_ Carys thought as her eyes honed in on just one of those many _fucking idiots_ that she was thinking of.

"What do you want?" she huffed, turning away from the irritating eyes of Alura. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"I can be wherever I want. I live round here too. Shouldn't you be rehearsing your speech for today?"

Carys gritted her teeth. _Don't hit her. Hit the dummy. Just picture her prissy little face on the fabric, just don't hit her. Hale is here._ "Shouldn't you be heading home. It's raining."

Alura shrugged her shoulders as Carys smacked the dummy in the face. "I can be out here if I want to."

"As can I."

"So are you volunteering? Anything to get away from your life, right?"

"What did you fucking say?"

"Your life. Surely you want to get away from it all."

Carys saw red. "You shouldn't say things like that!" Hale stepped forwards before Carys could smack the bitch's mouth. Hale knew her well enough to step between the two of them. "She's not volunteering. You don't know why she does this and quite frankly it's none of your business."

Alura's eyes narrowed. "No one asked you."

"You should step away, Alura. Before I forget there's a dummy here and smack you in the mouth."

Carys didn't know when to quit. Either they were going to fight, or Alura stepped down and walked away. Hell would have to freeze over for Carys to be the one to back off. Hale could get to her because it was Hale, the only person in this world that she truly loved. But people like Alura – they needed a smack in the mouth. The whole goddamn country did.

"When you volunteer, try not to make a fool of yourself. And do something with your hair."

 _I'm not volunteering… I hate the Games, I don't want to ever be a part of it. I hit these dummies because-_

"Oh fuck off Alura!"

Carys thought the words had left her own mouth, but she hadn't actually spoken this time, and Alura's shocked expression meant it could have only come from one person.

Hale.

 _I've never been so proud._

* * *

 **If you are a decent human being you'll go ahead and submit to my dear friend Chaos In Her Wake. She's just uploaded a different sort of SYOT and it's genius, honestly. Please go and check it out!**

 **Just so people are aware, Carys is the last new addition to this story. Thanks Nate!**

 **Anyway… two more districts to go. Who's readyyyy!**


	13. Broken Walls

**Chapter Thirteen.**

* * *

 **District Eleven.**

* * *

 **Ponche Garland, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

The air was stifling inside their small little house, packed full of bodies that were far too excitable for a Reaping day morning.

Ponche watched as his mother picked up a plate full of home-made biscuits and under one arm she carried a basket of freshly picked apples. His dad was a little more gruff as Duncan came running into the little room they were all squashed tightly into, nearly knocking him down and swinging through his legs. Maybe they were acting too much, forcing themselves into a routine of the Happy Garlands, but Ponche watched it with a twinge of happiness and pride.

 _Perhaps today isn't so bad, after all._ Perhaps if he just tried hard enough, for once he could enjoy himself today.

"Are they always like this?" Ponche looked over his shoulder at his friend Dawson who was sat just behind him. "I mean I'm grateful for the invite but I don't think your mum thought about how many people actually fit in this room."

"I'll admit it's a little snug-" Ponche started.

"Snug? Dawson's foot is practically up my ass."

This time it was Fred who spoke. Typical cocky Fred – the only person Ponche knew who could make such a crass remark sound mildly charming. The last member of their little friendship group – Leah, head in a book per usual – giggled and went bright red as Fred winked at her.

"As Dawson so kindly pointed out," Ponche's mother looked at her son and then at his friends, a twinkle in her eye, "this room is very small. I would perhaps think before speaking, Fred, dear."

"Sorry Mrs Garland."

"Now eat up," she said, clapping her hands and gesturing to the decent spread she'd prepared from meagre scraps they had left over in the kitchen and a bit of elbow grease through hard-work, "it's all got to be eaten. I don't want any child in this house heading to the Square without a full belly."

Ponche watched as his friends began to engulf handfuls of fruit and little sweet treats that the Garland family never usually had in full supply. He admired his mother for what she was doing – or what she was trying to do, at least. Maybe it was working on his friends but it wasn't on Ponche. It was why he became the only child not to shove fistfuls of snacks into his mouth to distract himself.

It just didn't feel right. He himself didn't feel right, if truth be told. _But what's new?_

"You alright buddy?" Fred's fist connected with his back and Ponche's head sharply turned to look over his shoulder.

"You don't have to hit me, Fred."

He raised his hands in mock apology. "I didn't mean to-"

"Yeah, well watch it." Ponche immediately began to soften. "Please."

His loud-mouthed friend shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and began conversation with Dawson. Ponche watched the two of his friends with silent envy. They were so … loud. So exuberant. So full of life and yet Ponche just sat there, quiet as a dormouse, filling himself with his own sense of self-loathing simply because he didn't think he'd ever match up to two people that cared for him because of who he was.

It was a twisted way of looking at himself – feeling like his friends didn't really want him in their group, that he wanted to be a more deserving friend, when really friends were a chosen family. If they didn't want Ponche, they wouldn't have come all the way to his house when they had families of their own. Especially on a day like today.

"It's okay to be a little scared, Ponche." Leah shuffled closer and closed her book, dog-earing the page she was on and smiling at her friend. "They're idiots. Loveable. But idiots. I don't think they've realised what today even is."

"It's not even today, not really, Leah," Ponche said, smiling sadly. She was the only person he truly felt he could open up around and maybe that was because, nine times out of ten, if they were having a conversation she was so insanely optimistic about everything, it almost made Ponche believe things could get better. That there was a life out there worth living despite reality proving him otherwise at every twist and turn. "Next year I turn eighteen. We're adults. I guess Reaping day is a sort of annual mark against us growing up – we only have six to get through and with this one and next year's being it, everything just seems so real. I mean – what have I really achieved? Been smacked around for being too this, too that?"

He realised he was quietly ranting to poor Leah and he instantaneously felt guilty, his cheeks going red, but at the same time he enjoyed it. It was a weird mismatch of emotions roiling around his stomach. Luckily his parents were too pre-occupied with his younger brother, his two goofball friends were now mock-wrestling, and his older sister was most likely far too busy with her new fiancé. Leah listened. Ponche rarely spoke. But today – maybe today was affecting him more than he thought. Maybe he had a lot to say and had done for so many years now.

"I just don't feel like I'm good enough or old enough or ready enough to go out into the world."

"Did your parents tell you that you had to leave when you turn eighteen?" Leah asked kindly. "Because from the looks of things, you have a home here and a family that loves you. Does that not tell you that if you don't find your place next year, which let's face it, do you really think any of us are about to? Do you really think your parents are going to hate you for that?"

"I just want to be good enough. To feel good enough," Ponche said, embracing the stark reality of what he was saying, the insecurities always at the surface igniting every vein and forcing their way to the surface. "I'm rude to my family, really. I don't talk to them nicely. I don't talk to Fred, or Daw', or you really Leah. Because I don't think I have it in me anymore to be kind. When have you ever seen a kind person make it very far in Eleven?"

Leah placed a hand on Ponche's and again, he felt embarrassment twisting his gut. "You are kind, Ponche. You're in your feelings about today and you're panicking. You might not think the two are connected, but they are."

"I guess."

He found himself drifting. He wanted a better tomorrow, not just for him, but rarely had Ponche been given the innate belief in those around him and the world he was growing up to believe that a better tomorrow even existed.

Becoming an adult terrified him. Becoming a whole person – on his own, looking out to the world and having to find his place. Lost, that was how he felt, _lost, stuck, forever trying to climb out of this hole I buried myself into…_

"Hey Ponche, if you're done kissing Leah, come and have a look at this…"

The whole room erupted into laughter. Ponche didn't react. He never knew how to.

* * *

 **Sheridan Sannah, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

 _Riiiippppp._

Sheridan felt the cool breeze against her inner thigh within seconds of bending down to pull out the eight-thousandth weed of the day. The wind was blistering and made it almost impossible to be out in the fields, _but nope that wasn't enough_ , because now the breeze was tickling a place that the wind had not been given permission to touch and Sheridan found herself standing up stiff, red in the face with anger and embarrassment.

"Did you just?-"

"I think it did-"

"Oh Sheridan-"

The three beefier, surlier men that Sheridan had been directed to this field with, co-workers she'd shared many a windy day with, all stopped what they were doing to stare at Sheridan. Though her face was boiling hot, Sheridan found her footing rather quickly.

"Big surprise. My dick is bigger than yours," Sheridan grabbed the tear in her trousers and ripped it even harder, pulling off the trouser leg so that she could throw it away, catching the breeze as it rippled in the wind and flew off. "My uniform couldn't take it."

The men just giggled at Sheridan as she returned to de-weeding. With her back to them, her sarcastic smile fell back into a disgruntled grimace. Sheridan was not in the business of hitting buffoons simply because they were pointing at her and laughing – she hadn't quite fallen into the category of using violence to solve her problems but Sheridan found herself getting close. Despite the high-winds, their laughter still pierced her ears with every change to the soil she made.

 _Not long left._ She repeated the words in her head like a mantra that kept her working hard. Luckily there hadn't been a ground's manager in site for a long while – not since the very start of the Reaping day shift. Eleven didn't let kids take time off for their national 'holiday' – it wasn't good for their profit margins. Sheridan was so blessed to be working on such hallowed ground on a day like today. _Blessed my left ass-cheek._

"Would you guys quit it?" Sheridan found herself calling out before she could stop herself. "It happened. Move on. You're like – what – twenty-eight, the three of you? Act like it."

The three men looked at her and just laughed even louder. "Sorry mum."

"Time of the month?"

 _Did he just…_ she bit her tongue from answering back and just shook her head.

One of the men called out, "Look. Is it about today? Are you scared?"

 _No. I haven't even thought about it once._ "Just trying to earn an honest wage is all. Under the gracious eye of the Capitol what more can I do?"

"We managed to make it through just fine. Don't worry, kid, you'll be alright."

"I just can't wait for the inevitable anxiety that comes with feeling like I may just be called to die. It's exhilarating. And don't call me kid," Sheridan again, for perhaps the fifth time in ten minutes, turned her back sharply to carry on working.

Finally they stopped laughing at her to get on with their jobs. Truthfully, Sheridan felt a little bit guilty. They took it well because she knew them and they'd always shared the same kind of banter at work – Sheridan would sometimes come across like she genuinely cared, but words were just words thrown out and if you didn't let them stick, then they could never cause harm. Sheridan threw them out just as quickly and luckily today the people they were latching onto hit them back just as fast.

Sometimes she wasn't that lucky. The people she threw them at were people she didn't mean to hurt. She never went out of her way to come across like a cold ass, but sometimes, especially in Eleven, it paid to be the type of person where people averted their eyes, rather than spent their time staring and becoming curious.

"What on earth have you done to your leg?"

Sheridan looked up and almost lashed out again but bit her tongue as quickly as the words began to piece together. "Saraya?"

"The one and only." Her best friend – maybe more than best friend, definitely more than best friend – did a little curtesy and kicked at a weed that was still rooted in the soil. "You losing your touch?"

Sheridan's face broke out in the largest grin as she stood up and wiped down the mess on her chest, straightening the top half of her uniform. _Who the hell am I trying to impress…?_ "I did something stupid."

"I can see that." Saraya's eyes drifted down to Sheridan's exposed leg and she giggled brightly. It was such an effortless laugh – full of life and humour. It was music, for Sheridan, sweet and soft. _If the guys knew what I was thinking… fuck me. Sheridan Sannah, sweet and soft. They'd tear me to shreds._

Sheridan knew she could give as good as she got, though. It didn't really bother her.

"I thought you could get off early. We could walk down together?"

Sheridan looked at her muddy gloves and her face contorted with indecision – unsure what to do. "I don't know … I mean … I shouldn't really …"

"It's Reaping day. Even I got off work."

"Unfortunately for us unattractive people, we aren't given such privilege," Sheridan half-joked, laughing. "Let me clean up, first."

Saraya pointed at the men behind her who Sheridan knew were staring at the two girls – she could feel their curious eyes boring into her. She disliked overly curious people, and chatty people, and immature people, and anyone really that came across too … fake. Like caricatures of people. Like they were trying too hard. Luckily she knew them well enough to know it wasn't a façade. She'd actually gotten to like them. Sheridan couldn't say that about everyone.

"They the ones you told me about?"

Sheridan nodded. "In the flesh."

"Hi boys!" Saraya called out, waving.

There was some awkward mumbling behind Sheridan and then she heard the tell-tale sign of them pretending to work hard. _Caught in the act. That'll serve you right._

Saraya reached out a hand that Sheridan took almost too quickly. _Why do I act like this around her?_ Sheridan knew why and so did Saraya. Because Saraya had broken down every wall that Sheridan had put up in her life. Where most people Sheridan believed wore marks and put up brick walls to protect themselves, Saraya was a glistening example of true decency. Sheridan had never met anyone like that before.

It made her want to be good. To be so good. To be the kind of person that Sheridan didn't really believe existed. But here was a shining example that they did … _so maybe I can?_ Sheridan squeezed Saraya's hand and for the first time genuinely felt an innate fear about today. "We'll be okay, won't we?" Sheridan found the words leaving her lips too quickly and felt embarrassed at the idea of getting scared over something that always seemed so irrelevant to Sheridan. But looking at Saraya – the idea of sweet Saraya in the Games, it didn't seem so irrelevant all of a sudden. "I just mean-"

"We will be fine," Saraya squeezed her hand back. "Come on, as much as I like looking at your exposed leg, I don't think it's the right look for a Reaping."

"You sure?" Sheridan turned her leg at an angle, jutting it out even further and laughed. "Maybe you're right."

Sheridan walked away hand-in-hand with Saraya for only a brief moment, and when they reached the main pathway, they let go and fell into sweet, blissful conversation. It was a stark contrast to everything Sheridan believed but she loved it all the same.

 _One day, I'll have put myself together enough for you … one day._

She just hoped it wouldn't take forever.

* * *

 **Sheridan's POV turned out to be the longest one I've done so far. Sorry about that.**

 **ONE MORE DISTRICT TO GO! ALMOST THEREEEEE!**


	14. Blue

**Chapter Fourteen.**

* * *

 **District Twelve.**

* * *

 **Damon Millers, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

He dreaded this part of the day every single time.

Damon heard the harsh footsteps on the stairs, the _creak_ of the third from bottom stepthat shook through the house, and then what always sounded like marching as Damon stood up from the kitchen table and readied himself for whatever was about to happen.

Because something always did. Even when Damon was eating toast, or drinking a glass of orange juice, something was always wrong with what he was doing. His stomach somersaulted. His palms sweated. And Damon wanted to cry. Always wanted to cry. _Stop being such a baby!_

"Damon," his Father stood in the kitchen doorway, a behemoth of a man, intimidating didn't give him justice. He stood resplendent from head to toe in his Peacekeeper uniform – helmet under his arm, baton round his waist, gun in its holster. Damon's eyes lingered on the gun and he stopped himself from quivering at the sight of it. Violence was abhorrent. He didn't understand it. Never wanted to. Yet he was the son of a Peacekeeper in Twelve. _Oh the irony._

"Good morning Father."

"Sit," he gestured to the table and Damon sat, ignoring the bowl of cereal that sat there in front of him, going soggy, his warm cup of coffee growing colder by the second. He daren't extend a single finger until his Father began his own breakfast. "I want you to go out and find your brother. He didn't return last night."

"Perhaps he's at a friend's?"

"Perhaps," he replied, stern-faced, voice ice-cold. "Perhaps he incurred the vitriol of Jessica's father for being out late. The boy should know better."

 _Vitriol…_ Damon's mind fluttered. He honestly had no idea half of what his Father usually said but the way he said told him all he needed to know. It wasn't good. Damon had been told many times by his Father that practicing shooting at targets meant that his aim never went south, he never lost his talents at advocating for violence, that you had to hone your strengths. Damon tried to do that with his mind. He read, book after book, in secret of course because books weren't weapons, and did his best to think like his Father. But truthfully, the words rarely made sense and went through his mind in a jumble and left just as quickly. He'd come to accept his mind wasn't what it should have been – his grades at school usually proved that.

Another reason his Father did not like him.

"I can go out, if you want, and find him."

"That is what I just said, Damon. Did I stutter?"

Damon blushed. "N-No… I mean I-I…"

"Close your mouth and go. You can eat after the Reaping."

Damon nodded his head, wrapped up his coat in his arms and quickly left the house as respectfully as he could whilst his heart continued to pound harshly in his chest, rattling his rib-cage with fear. He wanted to look up to his Father because … _well aren't you supposed to?_ He wanted the grown-ups in his life to be his role models but so far they were proving to be anything but. All Damon wanted to do was become a just, dutiful human being that could make others proud. Yet he'd never so much as heard a single _well done_ in his entire life.

Either his family made him out to be the smallest ant in the world ready to be squashed, or he made a fool of himself around total strangers. Such was his life.

Still, outside of his house and away from his Father's harsh, watchful eye, Damon began to smile as he set off through the central avenue of Twelve. With his father in the profession that he had, Damon had grown accustomed to a certain life-style. He didn't take it for granted, though. Damon enjoyed spending as much time out of the centre of the District, amongst the poorer, as he did inside of it. The whole of Twelve was a curious place. Lots to be seen, lots of people to talk to.

 _No one likes me, mind, but oh well…_

He knew why. The reason sat back at his kitchen table.

As Damon walked past the local butcher's, gathered round a small table and bench that was placed underneath a large oak tree, a bird twittering in the branches, he saw a group of people he recognised from school. He knew he had enough time to look for his brother and make it home in time to get himself ready for today, so he walked quickly over, patting down his shirt and waved at the three teenagers.

"Hey guys," Damon said, beaming.

They turned to look at him and whatever conversation they were having shut off immediately. "Are you alright, Millers?" He recognised the one who spoke as Elroy, built like a brick, eyed by every girl, envied by every boy – _well, I don't see what all the fuss is about really –_ and loved by all.

Still, Damon enjoyed human company for as long as they allowed him to hang around so he sat on the empty space on the bench and nodded his head kindly. "I'm fantastic. Feel really good today, I mean I know what today is but – well – you know –" _Okay stop, Damon, seriously stop._ "What's not to like? It's sunny … it's …

"Good?" Athalie, the blonde sat on the table closest to Elroy, giggled. "Fantastic?"

Damon felt his cheeks going bright red as he looked at the very beautiful girl. Girls never really paid him much heed. He spent a lot of his time in interactions like this either trying to be overly confident and chirpy so the guys thought he was fun enough to talk to, or stammering over his words because he hadn't really ever … talked to a girl properly. It was a complete sausage fest back at home. He missed his Mother. She had a nice smile. He missed smiles.

He laughed. "E-Exactly… fantastic!"

"Your Father shot anyone today?" The final voice belonged to a girl he didn't actually know the name of, but she was infamous for beating up nearly anyone that got close enough without her permission. Suddenly, Damon was very aware of where he was sat and awkwardly stood up, trying to hide the fact that he was shit-scared of all three of them and had no idea what he was doing here or why he'd walked over in the first place.

Again, Damon laughed and took a step back. "No, not today. Anyway, it's been wonderful chatting. I'm sure you've got lots to talk about. I won't keep you."

He ran away without really caring for a moment how it looked or what they were saying. He disappeared around the corner and leant against the closest building to where he now stood, panting, bright-red in the face, yet still smiling, because he liked to smile. There never was much of that going around, so why not?

 _You utter idiot…_ Damon thought, and as the smile started to slip from his face, his eyes began to well up. Alone, either he tried to be as positive as he could be, or it hit him like a truck right in the face. Today, he felt both of them swirling around his stomach, trying to fight each other for control. _Go find your brother. Focus._

He wiped away the first tear that threatened to fall and walked away, swinging his arms, ensuring that he would no longer become distracted.

It wasn't the best life he lived, but it was his life. Every day he tried to make the most of it. _As best as I can._

* * *

 **Altia Wright, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

"Don't you lay a finger on her!"

Altia's legs took control of her whole body and before she could say or do anything to stop them, she was between the two girls, one on the bench with a fist in the air, the other in a heap, crying into her arm.

There was a splash of blood on the table. A big lump of a guy just sat there gawping at the two girls who Altia presumed were two of his friends. _Why am I over here?_ She suddenly felt very naked under the glaring sun of Twelve and the incredulous stares of the three strangers.

It was awkward. Yet something inside Altia had willed her over and it wasn't as if this was the first time she'd stepped between a fist and a face. Or put herself into situations that she couldn't quite dig herself out of.

"Why didn't you step in?" she directed her first question to the boy who just stood there, dumb-founded, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. "I presume you know them. Or are you just a creep who clings to the nearest girl you can find? Or in this case two of them."

"Excuse me, but who in the hell are you?" This time it belonged to, of all girls, the one who had been crying on the floor. She spat a wad of blood out from her mouth, a gloop of bright crimson saliva, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Who invited you?"

"I can't be the only person in this District who hears a scream and thinks – oh no, what the hell is going on? It could have been a Peacekeeper."

"And what would you have done?" the girl asked, hand on her hip, glaring at Altia.

She immediately bowed her head, the fight flushing through every pore as quick as it had been injected. She pictured a Peacekeeper in her head and immediately felt very repulsed – she had been in a few precarious situations with the so-called keepers of peace, and some of those situations were the reasons why Altia Wright, of little money, found herself in the centre of the District where the more well-to-do flourished. Or at least got by. She could still feel his skin on hers. It left her feeling disgusted – at herself more than anything.

"Just … what's wrong?" Altia took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, repressing those memories and flashes of pain. If she could focus on what was going on in the moment rather than what had just happened, or what might happen, or what would definitely happen, then Altia felt better. Her head felt fixed to her shoulders rather than somewhere dark and painful. "If you're friends, why would you hit her?"

"She said I checked out that Millers kid as he ran away. Like hell would I ever find someone like _that_ remotely attractive." The voice belonged the girl on the bench, who was panting harshly, trying to catch her breath. "Look Athalie, I'm sorry alright. And Elroy you shouldn't encourage her. I don't care if you two are fucking-"

"Uh, we are most definitely not."

"Oh please," the brunette girl laughed this time and Altia just watched the three of them, utterly confused at the way they interacted when one of them was giggling through globs of blood, "I'm sure even this rando' can see it and she doesn't even know you."

The three of them turned to Altia and she just shrugged her shoulders. Again, she felt very exposed, like she was under some kind of scrutinous spotlight that was picking her apart. She hated the sensation. Maybe she jumped into things with her fists out and little thought because it gave her a sense of direction. Some sort of distraction from everything else that was going on. And because she didn't like to see displays of reckless violence in a world that was tainted with it. Especially between so-called friends.

"What kind of outfit is that anyway? You do know we all have to be back here in like, I dunno, two hours?"

"Gwen, be nice," Elroy – who had finally found a more confident voice, or at least what he thought was one – spoke up as he took Athalie's delicate hand and held it close. "What's your story? I don't mean to, you know, judge, but-"

"You don't really fit in," Athalie blurted out. "Just being honest."

Altia knew they were right and for that she couldn't blame them. Little droplets from last night tainted her eyes and she felt her mind going hazy. She usually went through this – swallowing the bitterness of the truth down and trying to forget about it, distance herself from reality. But usually that attempt at distraction came out in moments like this. There was only so much burying of the truth that one person was capable of.

"Mind your own business," Altia snapped, her voice harsh, fingers clenched into fists. "Just don't hit each other, alright? It might not have been me that came running. You never know."

She left to clean up their own mess. They didn't want her around and honestly Altia wasn't too sure why she'd bothered in the first place. Twelve had a miasma of despair hanging over it. The atmosphere sunk into everything and rotted it to its core. The three behind her – they were blind to it, and Altia had just wanted to make sure something in this horrid place could be okay.

She found herself shaking with anger. She hated it and for a second, away from sight, closed her eyes shut and forced her mind to think about absolutely anything else and not go _there._ Because going there was a bad place to go and especially today – when for all she knew, someone she'd heard of, someone she talked to at school – could be chosen. It was just the way of the world but that didn't mean Altia had to agree with it.

It amazed Altia that there could be people who laughed in this world. Call it negative, call it whatever, but it was the truth.

 _One… two… three…_ she found herself counting mentally, composing herself for a final time, before she unclenched every muscle in her body, opened her eyes and began to walk away. _One… two… three…_ It was the only way to keep herself calm.

* * *

 **And there we have it. All twenty-four tributes introduced before the mayhem of being reaped hits them and they head off to the Capitol. I'm really glad I formatted it this way – I know the characters really well outside of the Games and I hope you do too. It means I'm more connected which is always handy for a writer plus you get to see how they are in their day-to-day lives. It's more reflective of the forms you sent me, I think.**

 **Chapters now get a bit longer so I very much doubt I can stick to daily updates. And tbh, I don't really want to. The reason I updated daily was to get through this – not because I disliked doing them, but because the fun really does start happening from the next chapter. You've seen them in their normal lives, now you get to see them all mixed up together. If you're interested, there will be twelve Capitol chapters – four POVs per chapter, so they will all get two more POVs each. I think three POVs for a tribute is more than I usually see in SYOTs – but again, I want to connect with these characters, and I want you to know them really well before they all start dropping like flies. So :)**

 **Please let me know what you thought! Maybe fill in a complete tribute chart in your review to tell me your opinions. There is also a POLL on my profile! I'd love for you to go over there and vote. It's just a bit of fun, I like to see what you guys think.**

 **Final note: Please go ahead and submit to District11-Olive. She has a new SYOT open. Another one of the old vets coming back due to Corona. Also, if you haven't already done so, please submit to Chaos In Her Wake. They're both going to be great stories and we all made a pact to get our stories finished so you don't have to worry about them not being completed!**

 **Thanks guys. See you with the next stage of this story!**


	15. Ritual

**Chapter Fifteen.**

* * *

 **Train Rides.**

* * *

 **Chancellor Darrian, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

The entire situation felt surreal.

Chancellor sat in the back of the luxurious car, tinted windows and white leather seats that weaved through throngs of District One's avid citizens. It was hard not to feel a sense of overwhelming pride and satisfaction from his position, people calling his name, people calling _her_ name, waving flags and swarming the back of the car as it carried on past them.

"This is it," he said, clapping his hands together in glee. "We are actually _going._ "

"Woo-hoo," Linnea said.

Chancellor glared at her. It felt like it had only been five minutes since he'd been on that stage, cheering and waving for the crowd with as much charm as he could lather on. It didn't really bother him, putting on the show that they all craved. If anything it would look good on camera and that was all he wanted. _The real show begins in a few days' time._

But behind closed doors, now that he was sat next to Linnea who seemed completely unenthused to be sat near to him, Chancellor found his hands clenching into fists. "You know if you didn't want to be here, you shouldn't have volunteered like the ditzy clutz you looked. _Oh, oh me, pick me! I volunteer._ Utter horse-shit," Chancellor growled menacingly. "The least you could do is fucking smile."

Linnea turned to Chancellor and grinned, lips pulled back to reveal her shining white teeth. "There. Happy?" She crossed her arms and slumped back into the seat. "Look I know why I did what I did. I know where we're headed. I don't need to explain myself to you. Let's just get to the damn train, okay."

 _Ugh, girls._ Riddled with stupid hormones that made them so fucking annoying to Chancellor. Their screams were quite fun, each prick of the skin, slice of the flesh, splash of blood elicited quite musical vocals from their warped throats. But when they weren't just adding another tally to his journal, girls were so _annoying!_

The car finally rolled up to the station and Chancellor's heart leapt into his throat. It was _packed._ He could barely see the elegant vehicle awaiting their arrival for the amount of people crammed tight together. Like cattle for slaughter. When the doors opened, Chancellor threw himself across a disgruntled Linnea who patted her dress down, squawked like a stupid bird as he crawled over her, and out the car he went.

There were several camera crews nearby and Chancellor couldn't contain his glee. "Just you wait!" he neared the first camera, beaming for the countless millions on the other end – both adoring Capitolite, loyalist Career, and scummy _others._ "You'll be seeing me again real soon. Get ready for a show!"

Linnea hurried up past the steps, waving at a camera, winking at a few and twirling in her dress. It made Chancellor uneasy at how simple she made it look, so effortless and the screams for her name, not his, made him want to knock the little brats who hollered her name to the ground and slit their throats for good measure. He didn't. _That would not do my image any good. Not yet anyway._

"Come on Chancey, in we go!" Linnea grabbed his hand and waved to the crowd, blowing a kiss as the train doors closed around them. Her hand immediately let go of his and she stared at him. "I guess, since we're District partners, we should do our best to get along. I do wish you'd brushed your hair, though." Her eyes lingered on the mop atop his head and for some weird, incomprehensible reason he suddenly felt very embarrassed.

"Does it matter?" he said, dismissing the unease. "Can you believe we are actually here?" He knew he should probably get along with Linnea as best as he could for the time being. Tradition dictated they would stick together for the majority of the Games, forming the dominant pack of the Arena, slaughtering the nameless and unimportant cannon fodder that made up the rest. And then, when the time came, Linnea would die. The thought thrilled him to the core.

"Let's go this way," Chancellor led Linnea through an automatic sliding door. "Fancy," he said as they entered the first train compartment. He hadn't expected anything less. Chancellor, and he knew Linnea with the last name that she had, were accustomed to this luxury. But something about it seemed even more elegant simply because it was from the Capitol. It probably had the least effect on District One coming from where they lived, but it didn't stop Chancellor from relishing every single colour and confection that attacked his eyes with vibrancy.

"Do you reckon they're on their way?" Linnea asked.

Chancellor looked at her as he slumped into the nearest seat, easing into the plushness of the material. "Who?" He picked up a grape and threw it into his mouth.

"Our mentors." Linnea sat the opposite side of Chancellor, grimacing as he continued to throw in bits of food into his mouth. "You should really go easy."

"Daddy not feed you enough?"

"Daddy- I mean, my dad, fed me just fine thank you. But we have to grow accustomed to not eating much where we're headed. I sometimes feel like tributes I've seen from One forget that. Starvation hits them hardest. I'll hand it to the other Districts like Eleven and Twelve, at least they-"

"Don't you dare compliment those savages," Chancellor dismissed the absurd notion there was anything good to be said for those places. "Mere bodies to fall. You should revel in the idea of killing each and every one of them."

"Is that why you volunteered?" Linnea raised an eyebrow at Chancellor. "Because you enjoy the kill?"

Chancellor felt adrenaline and glee simmer through his veins at the thought. "Precisely."

Linnea paused and stared at Chancellor. He suddenly felt very exposed. As if he'd said the wrong thing.

"Duly noted," Linnea said.

Before Chancellor could say anything else, the doors hummed open and in swaggered their mentors, One's most recent Victors. They swept through the place with such refined confidence that even Chancellor was awe-struck for a moment. These two – they had _won_ the Games. Chancellor would be joining them very soon. Maybe if he had it his way, in just a week he'd back, if the killing happened quickly enough. The thought was no longer a dream; Chancellor watched them and thought of himself next year, replacing his mentor Savoy with such suave arrogance.

 _But first … this year._

"Linnea, with me." Ailsa gestured to Linnea and before either could say anything, she led the bitch away from the compartment and through the opposite doors.

Savoy sat where Linnea had been sitting and eyed Chancellor curiously. "Chancellor, I'm presuming."

"Who else would I be?"

He laughed, his eyes relentlessly staring Chancellor down. "Call it unorthodox since you'll undoubtedly be allying together, but we prefer to speak to each of our tributes individually to begin with."

"Why?" Chancellor asked.

Again, he laughed, and again, Chancellor felt as if he were under scrutiny for something he didn't know about. "To see who we believe actually has a shot in this," Savoy said, honestly. "We've decided to put our two heads together and focus on only one of you. Because, after all, there is only one Victor."

Chancellor wanted to argue that it wasn't fair, but he agreed, there was only _one_ Victor.

Linnea Halvard would make another tally in his journal once this was all done, and it would be an enjoyable tally to mark. But for now, they would work together.

 _I'll put myself through the agony of her company for as long as strategically necessary._ The things he did for this dream of his. It was all worth it.

* * *

 **Henley Pereira, 15 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

Teak wasn't saying much. Henley could deal with that.

She'd spent the past hour trying to stomach everything she was feeling at the moment, she didn't think she could take the emotions and reactions of another human being just yet.

She'd eaten herself silly simply because the food was there and now felt sick. Whether or not that was the food or the fact that she'd spent the past hour dry-heaving in her bedroom, nauseous, terrified, flabbergasted, every negative emotion under the sun, she wasn't sure.

Now she simply felt drained. _And I'm not even to the Capitol yet._ Henley felt the hot, angry tears begin to prick the corners of her eyes again but she'd done enough of that for a lifetime since she'd been reaped, since the conversation with Marilyn, holding her tight, sobbing into her hair … _I can't cry any longer. Not if I want to have a shred of a chance … I just have to use it for fuel, rather than letting it hold me down._ It was probably easier said than done, but what else did Henley have to do?

Teak sat up before Henley could answer that rather dismal question and both of them turned to see their mentor, Archie, hesitantly enter their carriage. "Hi … sorry it's taken me so long to show my face. I was, er, busy."

Henley didn't buy it one second but the man had shown up so that was at least something. Teak met her gaze and then looked away. Henley wanted to like him. Truthfully, if they only had a few days left before everything humane was stripped from them, she actually wanted to get to know him and perhaps, maybe if at all possible, enjoy their last shred of normalcy. But that didn't sit right with Henley either, because how could they enjoy themselves? She was scared of saying the wrong thing and reacting badly, of the Capitol not liking her enough to think she had a shot when really _screw what the Capitol think of me!_ None of it made sense, her addled thoughts, all swirled together, so again Henley without the aid of Marilyn or her medical books, found distraction in a worried looking Archie, who sat in the booth opposite the two of them.

Something didn't seem right about that, but Henley wasn't ready to argue. She bit her tongue not to call him out because this man was here to help them. _Right?_

"I'm Henley. This is Teak," she began, attempting an awkward looking smile. "It's good to meet you."

Teak smiled sheepishly and nodded his head. "I'm sorry I don't really know what to say right now. It's all been a bit – well a bit much."

Henley smiled sadly at the boy. She had no idea who he was and it was probably the same the other way around. But the two were united now in a bond that stemmed from where they came from. Henley hadn't even given it a thought as to who she might team up with in the Arena. She only really understood what went on in the Capitol and in the Games from what she'd seen on the television. Perhaps none of it went together the way they'd been led to believe? It all felt so dark, this future, and again Henley's stomach did flips in its uneasiness, and again Henley had to fight the urge to flee before she said or did something stupid, because she had to be here, this is where the real game began. Here with Teak, and with Archie. The only man in Five to have survived this.

"Well, you know I'm Archie, because I already said that. I suppose you want to know the best way of going about this whole charade?"

"Charade?" Henley found herself asking before she could stop herself. "What do you mean charade?"

Archie scoffed, his hand moving to the back of his neck. He just screamed awkwardness. Like he did not want to be here and having to look at Henley and Teak, let alone speak to them, made him want to run away. Though Henley knew the feeling all too well, it left her feeling annoyed. She needed this man's help. He was a vocal force in the Capitol whilst she was in the Arena. It might have been her fighting for her life, but there were things he could do from where he sat watching her, there were things that might save her life.

And all he could say was charade?

Teak interrupted Henley as she opened her mouth and it was probably a good thing too. "Any tips, or words of advice? I can be honest with you and tell you I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm willing to learn."

Henley swallowed the lump in her throat. "I know basic first aid. I've had some training."

Archie waved a hand in dismissal which silenced the two of them and Henley felt herself begin to shake. "None of that matters. You're from Five. We don't win this thing."

"You did," Henley snapped.

"Yes I did. And I wish I hadn't."

He stood up and left the carriage before either Teak or Henley could say another word. Henley's mouth opened and closed wordlessly. Her fists clenched and unclenched and unsure what to do with them, she held onto the table to steady herself. _Did that just happen…?_ She suddenly felt incredibly weak, like the only lifeline she had anchoring her mind to any shred of a chance that she might have came out alive through this whole ordeal had been taken from her.

 _Did I say something wrong? Is it me? Am I just not good enough to win this and he can see that from a mile away?_

She noticed Teak was watching her and she blinked furiously to get rid of the tears that threatened to fall. "So you know first aid? That's pretty cool. Where did you learn that?"

Henley thought of Marilyn and for a second the anger subsided, replaced by severe longing, an ache that sunk to her bones. _If Archie isn't going to help me, then I will just have to help myself._ She looked at Teak with a real sense of sadness. Because she needed to win and for that to happen he had to die. They all did. It didn't sit right.

She'd spent a long period of her life learning how to help people, how to stitch them up, put them back together, fix their problems and stop them from hurting. Marilyn had taught her that. She'd even taken an oath of sorts – to protect, to persevere, to _save_.

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up, face flushed and again her body quivering with sadness and anger. "It's not your fault." Henley left the carriage and chased after Archie. Everything about this situation went against who Henley was, but that had to be forgotten for now.

Archie was going to help her whether he liked it or not. For Marilyn.

 _For me._

* * *

 **Maisley Corvac, 14 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

"I just can't believe it," Maisley said for the hundredth time, slamming her hands down in childish denial. "I mean I always knew it _could_ happen, but to me? I'm the daughter of the Mayor."

"We know," Celestin called out from the opposite end of the train compartment. Maisley couldn't see him, he was laying down, staring at the ceiling and offering annoying interludes to the _serious_ conversation she had been trying to have.

Maisley stared at their joint mentor, Breanna, and felt tears welling in her eyes that she quickly blinked away. "I thought I would be safe. I truly did."

"And yet…" Celestin said.

"That isn't helping," Breanna interluded, standing up and pacing towards Maisley's District partner.

She couldn't believe she was here, of all places, with an _Elan._ He was almost as rich as she was, almost as well-known amongst the elite, and she didn't like it. If it came down to family name and who the Capitol had actually heard of that may influence their sponsors, it would have been a hell of a lot easier for her to gain favour if she had some sewage rat accompanying her.

 _That's not fair,_ her mind counter-acted, causing her tears to well up again as Breanna paced closer to Celestin. _I just don't want to die. I can't fight. I can't._ Yet she'd have to pretend. She'd have to weave the grandest of stories and the most elaborate of lies to convince herself she actually had a chance. Because she couldn't die. She just couldn't.

"For a start, Celestin, I don't particularly care what your thoughts are on being here, and I don't care what your opinion is on Maisley. Whether you two get along or not, you're here together, so get up and come and join us." Breanna had an authority to her voice that had rarely came out the two hours or so they'd been travelling, yet when it did, even Maisley couldn't help but sit up and quieten down. "Now, Celestin!"

There was an audible groan and up swaggered Celestin, dragging his feet as he sat down on the booth opposite Maisley and Breanna. "Happy?" he said, slumping his head in his hands. "I just – I don't know what to think, alright? I guess I'm a bit like Miss Corvac, here. Can't quite believe it."

"Yet it's happening. So you have to snap out of that quite quickly otherwise you'll be in trouble."

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Celestin said, waving his hand. "I know, okay. I know what'll need doing. Just let me … process it, my own way."

Maisley watched their exchange and felt herself sinking into her chair. Looking at Celestin, it was clear who the Capitol might put more stock in, and the thought frightened her. She'd spent her whole life being the only Corvac that her father actually paid any heed to, put any hope for their family's future, and yet here she was. It didn't matter that she was a Corvac. Maisley thought about what Breanna had said to Celestin, about snapping out of his mindset quickly, and knew she had to do the same with that innate entitlement.

It did not matter she was a Corvac. She was now a tribute like everyone else. If she wanted to live, it didn't matter where she came from, it only mattered what she did with her time _now._

"Breanna, can I ask you a question?" Maisley said, looking at their mentor as she turned away from Celestin and her face began to relax. "Actually, I have two."

"Go for it," Breanna said, smiling.

Flashes of what had happened at the Reaping still haunted her as she asked her first question. "Will what my Father did on the stage affect what the Capitol thinks of me?" If it had been anywhere else, any other time, seeing her usually composed, refined Father flip out and start attacking the Escort would have utterly thrilled Maisley. But now it just felt stupid. Like he'd tagged her with a burden going into the Capitol that might have an impact on their perception of her.

Breanna shook her head. "It's not about your Father anymore. It's about you and what you do with your time in the Capitol. When I was reaped, my sister attacked a Peacekeeper. Swore the place down," Breanna seemed to smile fondly at the memory. "I kept my head up and made sure that I showed no sign of that reaction in my presentation throughout the Capitol. Don't let it worry you."

Celestin snorted from where he lounged and sat up. "It was pretty cool, though, right? The Mayor of all people punching that purple-haired douchebag. Where is he, by the way?"

Maisley giggled. "I think he's been attending his broken nose for some time now. I didn't know my dad had such a strong right hook."

"It was impressive," Celestin remarked, before seeming to focus in on where he was, who Maisley was, and slunk back down. He grumbled something under his breath and Maisley just watched him intently. _Maybe he's not so bad after all._ She just had to do the same with him – forget where they came from, forget who they might have been, and put all the importance on where they were going and the story they told from this moment on.

"And your second question?"

Maisley focused back on her mentor and the cold, stark reality of where they were came flooding back and she frowned, playing with the ribbon tied round her waist. "I don't mean to pry. But why does Six only have you? What do the others keep doing wrong?"

Breanna paused at the question. Her eyes darted between Maisley and Celestin and something went through her mind. Maisley could practically see the cogs turning as her lightness dimmed and she extended a hand. Maisley stared at it, confused, not used to human comfort let alone from someone that was old enough to be her mother. She hadn't known it for such a long time.

Maisley took it and felt the warmth that radiated through from Breanna. "Every one of you is different – I'm not going to use the word tribute. You're Maisley and you're Celestin. I won't lie and say that you can both come back because you can't. But I truly believe, as I do every year, that one of you can. And I will do everything I can to help you."

Maisley wanted to hug the woman. She almost wanted to hug Celestin. The whole situation scared her to death – scared her beyond anything she'd ever felt before. It made her want to be sick in the toilet, it made her want to punch the windows in fury about how _unfair_ it all was. But nothing would change where she was headed. It was no longer time to pretend, to think about what-if; it was time to focus and become the fighter she had to become.

"I'm going to try my best," Maisley said, nodding to convince herself. "It's all I can really do."

 _Maybe I do have a chance._

Or is that just another story? Another lie?

Only time would tell.

* * *

 **Carys Lavell, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

The faces on the television screen seemed to all blur into one.

They'd been watching it for an hour now, on repeat, a loop that Shual was particularly fond of. Carys watched him out the corner of his eye, intently staring at each one of the kids called forwards to die. Because that's what this was – a call to their coffins. If Carys wanted to come back to Hale, to her miserable life, then she had to win.

And they all had to die.

"Have you had enough yet?" she called out sharply, bringing her legs up to her chest underneath the silk blanket she'd taken from the sofa. "I mean – what else are you going to see that you haven't already a hundred times?"

Shual shushed her. Usually, Carys might have leapt up and hit him for that, or at least shushed him back, but Carys was tired. _Exhausted._ The whole day had taken its toll and she could feel every muscle in her body relenting under the weight of where she was headed.

The sky was now dark, peppered with stars that twinkled in cloudless emptiness. The storm that had showered upon Ten was nowhere to be seen. It looked almost pretty. Until Carys reminded herself where they were headed – how close they were to the very city that she, and everyone she'd ever met, despised so much.

The doors behind her opened as Shual clicked a button on the remote, restarting the Reaping recap. Carys rolled her eyes and rolled them even harder as the inane voice of their Escort came ricocheting through the carriage. Even Shual's face crumpled into a wince as his voice bounced from china mug to crystal light-sconce.

"Oooo, we watching this again?" he sat down next to Shual and picked up a magazine from the table, flicking through the pages absent-mindedly. "You'd look good in this, Shual." It was creepy the way he edged ever closer to the poor boy and Carys wanted to grab the poodle-headed idiot by his curly mane and throw him out of the train window.

But she didn't. Her arms didn't rise. Her hands didn't make fists. All that remained of the fight Carys had at this point was the feeling in her gut that made everything feel unpleasant. Their mentor hadn't been much help – _don't die, what great advice_ – so at this point, Carys felt pretty much alone. She admired Shual's desire to scope out the competition and understand what was awaiting them, but for Carys it didn't really matter.

She couldn't trust any of them. They probably thought the exact same of her. She imagined another boy similar to Shual, or maybe one of those insane Careers, flickering through the Reapings from where they were sat on their train, landing on Carys as she stormed up to the stage, Hale the only voice she could hear in the background.

 _What do they think of me?_ She'd never put any stock in what others thought of her before, so why did it matter now? The whole situation just felt alien to her and Carys had no idea how to process it all. It was difficult to focus on something she didn't know and people she only knew the faces of. Her eyes drifted to Shual who was uncomfortable and their Escort. This was something she could see – something concrete, within arms-reach, a way to pour out the rage and anger she felt about the situation she had been swept up into.

Maybe she did have an ounce of energy left in her after all.

"Found anything good?" Carys bounded between the two of them, throwing herself into the small gap between their Escort and Shual, pushing the moron away from her District partner with her legs. "Anyone that screams terrifying monster or easy kill?"

"Carys," Shual snapped, looking at her.

"I didn't mean it," she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't actually – oh never mind." She could feel the icy glare on the side of her face from her interruption of the two of them. For the duration of the entire surreal journey from Ten to where they were sat now, this buffoon next to her had ignored Carys' presence, pretending she did not exist. Shual was the only one he could see and it was beginning to rub Carys the wrong way.

She didn't necessarily trust Shual, but he was the closest piece of home left after she'd been forced away from it. The scars on her arms prickled with heat as the man extended an arm behind her, towards Shual. _Is he…?_

Carys slapped the hand away, this time quite harshly, the skin on skin contact making a sound that uttered a shriek from the man's puffy lips and a laugh from Carys. He recoiled in utter disgust and stood up, finally acknowledging Carys and wagging a fat finger in her face.

"You crazy bitch! Look what you've done to me." He was cradling his arm, holding it tight to his chest. Shual still had the television on, but he was no longer assessing each face and expression, he now only had eyes for his District partner and their squawking Escort.

"You don't need to call her a bitch," Shual said.

Carys glared at the man. "Call me a bitch again, I dare you." She'd found the rage quite easily, boiling beneath the skin, and the energy only came with it. Her eyes were slits as they narrowed at the crazy man. She had flashes of that field, her giddy youthful expression, innocent eyes… just seeing the hand nearing Shual's skin… a shiver ran down Carys' back and she thought about those makeshift dummies, the hours she spent beating out her anger on something inanimate because it made it easier to bear.

Maybe, today, it would no longer be an inanimate punching bag. This _thing_ would do.

"I-I … you can't do this," he took a step back and eyed the two of them, flitting between Shual and Carys who was taking a step closer to him. "I'll have you-"

"Flogged? Beaten? Killed? Where the hell do you think I'm going?" Carys almost leapt at the man but felt a hand on her shoulder and stopped, her head snapping over her shoulder and the fight relenting fractionally at Shual's stare. "What? He – he has it coming – he –"

"What?"

Carys' eyes dropped. "He chose me." Her fists unclenched and her arms fell to her side. "Of all the people to choose, he chose me. Why?"

Before Shual could say anything, she shouldered their Escort out of the way, flinging him sideways into the sofa cushions, and she ran into her bedroom compartment. Her head buried its way into the feathery pillow before anybody could see or hear anything.

 _Why me…? Why?!_

She'd give anything to be back in Ten, amongst everything that had ever gone wrong, because the way forwards was paved with something so much worse.

Carys' body began to shake with sobs and she couldn't control it. She couldn't stubbornly ignore them this time – she couldn't punch her emotions away, she couldn't do anything but relent to them.

The fight had fully left her. She felt like a dummy.

A punching bag.

 _Useless._

* * *

 **This was too exciting for me and I just wrote, wrote, wrote and then it was finished and I know I said updates wouldn't be fast… but? Well dw they won't be tomorrow, I'm a bit busier, but I just had to start this new stage of the story. It's too much fun!**

 **Please vote on the poll if you haven't already. I like to see your thoughts!**


	16. Death Knell

**Chapter Sixteen.**

* * *

 **Chariot Rides, Part One.**

* * *

 **Neviya Vavrick, 18 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

"You are so much better than Dirk."

Neviya and Roarke were about to disembark from the train, ready for the Capitol and the adoration of a whole city, but she just _had_ to tell him that. Because it was true. They'd caused quite the stir back on the stage – the pair of them had – but it was so worth it. And now here she was, arm in arm with the sort of person Neviya had only dreamed that the whole of Two could have been like. Perpetual happiness. What was so wrong with that?

"Could you imagine, you with Dirk, or me with Thyana? I think we wouldn't have made it to the Games in one piece," Roarke said, laughing.

Neviya felt her heart-beating, nervously awaiting the thrum of the doors opening, but she had enough confidence in herself to know she'd do a good job at this. Making people like her would be a piece of cake – here she would actually be appreciated for radiating a little bit of positivity. "Oh, hun, Dirk wouldn't have known what was coming."

With that, the doors opened and the pair from Two were bombarded with shrieks and a blanket of limbs that came rushing towards them. Beefy men who loomed over Neviya and Roarke held the crowds back as they were quickly ushered into another luxurious looking vehicle. Neviya enjoyed the buzz and glee that sizzled in the air. She relished in it, waving and calling back to everyone around her. Roarke spent a moment looking at Neviya and copied her. They looked charming and companionable. Two people to root for if only because they knew how to enjoy themselves.

"That was fun," Roarke said, breathless as they took their seats in the back of the car.

"We just have to keep our heads," Neviya replied. "We're about to meet the rest of the tributes. Specifically, One and Four. It's all very exciting out there but we know why we're here – don't we?"

Roarke blinked at Neviya. "I mean – well yes of course I do. But we can have a little fun, can't we?"

"Of course, Roarke," Neviya said, putting an arm around his neck. He was a little cutie, really. Part of him seemed way in over his head, part of him screamed sheer enthusiasm at where they were. They'd gelled instantly. It was the best start this process – better than anything Neviya could have wished for. "But – this is a game. An important game. Districts One and Four could be anything, or anyone. It doesn't matter what they looked like at the Reaping. What training we've had, they have had as well. Being a good liar makes a great candidate for the Hunger Games."

Roarke took a moment to process what Neviya was saying and nodded, gritting his teeth together in a solemn line. He looked scared and Neviya could understand why. This was the big leagues. She didn't want to be top dog in the alliance because she didn't want a target painted on her back, but she wasn't blind to where she was and what she'd _willingly_ opted in for. Roarke would have to die so she could win. They'd spent a few minutes discussing that. Amongst all the smiles and reverie, that stark truth laid flat and cold underneath everything they said or did.

But for now – what would be would be. And the Games weren't for a few days. Now was the time to meet everyone else. They were a team – Neviya and Roarke. Loyalty meant something to her.

"Excuse me sir?" Neviya leaned in closer to the driver of the car as they turned right from the station and up a large driveway, a huge building looming in the distance. "Where are our mentors? And Liotta – that funny little woman who's supposed to be escorting us around?"

The man didn't turn his head and for a second Neviya thought she was being ignored. Luckily, he seemed quite polite. "They've taken a separate car, Miss Vavrick. They'll be with you shortly."

"Where do you think we're going?" Roarke said, eyes blown open wide as he took in the scenery. "It's magnificent. Prettier than what I thought it would be."

"Very," Neviya agreed.

The car came to a stop and the doors were thrown open. Before Neviya or Roarke could say or do anything they were escorted quickly through a set of doors to the side of the building. It was quite exciting, all this. Neviya had no idea what awaited them. She'd been told roughly what to expect, that it was all about what they looked like and what to wear to begin with, but there was still a sense of the unknown lingering around.

Roarke linked her arm. He felt safe with her. Neviya liked that – she felt comforted by it.

"Wait in there," the man that had been walking with them said, pointing at the door. "You will be seen to shortly." He stalked away, leaving Neviya and Roarke to open the door to wherever it was they now were.

Inside, Neviya found herself in what looked to be the lobby of the building, a range of different plants and flowers dotted around the grand room. A chandelier hung prominent to the ceiling, fixated amongst decorations that spanned the entire place. Then her eyes landed on the chairs that had been set in front – twenty-four of them. And some were already filled.

Neviya swallowed the lump in her throat. "This is it," she said to herself, holding her shoulders up straight, eyes front, composed and ready. "C'mon Roarke."

It felt strange as eyes belonging to tributes from other districts fell upon the two of them. Some immediately shirked away, sinking into their chairs. Just by being from Two their reputation spoke enough. Some were probably looking at Neviya and Roarke and seeing monsters – seeing their potential killers. One girl smiled – _District Seven?_ – which Neviya found perplexing. She found herself and quickly smiled back before she located where they were supposed to sit.

 _Oh crap,_ Neviya realised that two very intimidating figures were right next to them, already here and awaiting their arrival. _District One._ She'd wondered about Linnea and Chancellor since she'd seen them on the screen. Roarke had plenty to say but Neviya wanted to make her own judgements – to see them for herself.

She extended a hand to the boy that had his arms crossed, his eyes on someone opposite him. _Did he just wink?_ "Hi, I'm Neviya. It's a pleasure."

He snapped out of whatever trance he was in and blinked at her hand. He didn't shake it. "What am I supposed to do with that information?"

Before Neviya could say anything, another set of doors were thrown open and District Four came prancing into the room. It was quite telling what everyone thought of the Career districts. No one would meet their eye as they joined the small circle that was forming.

"Well isn't this quaint," the girl said, beaming. "I love your hair." Britta Somerset immediately latched onto Neviya's shoulder and ran a finger through her ginger mane. Neviya giggled and dropped her hand, realising it was still out waiting for Chancellor.

"Yours too," she said.

"Do you use shampoo or mousse? I can't wait to see what the Capitol dress us up in." Britta was infectiously positive. Neviya loved it. _Another one!_

"I use the best that Two has to offer," Neviya said.

Linnea stepped up to them. Clearly not one to be overshadowed. "How do you maintain that colour?"

The girls were bubbly and excitable, nattering away about absolutely nothing significant.

Roarke stepped closer. "I use two-in-one."

They all looked at him. He smiled sheepishly and the girls just laughed – Neviya couldn't help herself. "Of course you do," she said.

Roarke almost jumped out of his skin when Destan put an arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry. Britta hasn't stopped talking about her hair since we got on the train. It's a _girl_ thing."

For the next five minutes, Neviya and the rest of the Careers talked in a way that didn't seem right for where they were. And it made Neviya happy, but she knew deep down, this was just shallow. Empty conversation. They could pretend they were the popular kids at school but really – the rest of the tributes sat around them, some too scared to even look over – they all knew what they were here to do.

 _It doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself for the time being._

So that's what she intended to do. Until a voice rang out over the intercom.

It was time to move on.

* * *

 **Nikos Rioux, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

Nikos found it almost disgusting.

"Can you believe that?" He gestured to the Career group next to them, too caught up in molesting each other's hair to notice how close Nikos and Albie were. "It's the fucking Hunger Games. They volunteered for this shit and they're _laughing._ "

"Nikos, they'll hear you," Albie said, arms crossed around her chest. "Besides, _you_ volunteered. By that same logic, shouldn't you be laughing, shouldn't you be stroking Two's hair?"

Nikos glared at her. Stunned. "I'll have you know-"

She sighed. "I don't care why you volunteered, alright. I'm sure there's a decent enough reason. But they're the biggest competition here. They might be the shallowest creatures on the planet, but I don't want them to see you talking about them – and by extension me – and get pissed off." Her eyes turned to burn holes into Nikos'. "So, please. Leave it."

Before Nikos could say anything else, refusing to not have the last word in Albie's seriously misunderstood interpretation of him, a voice boomed out of the intercom, drowning out even the Careers' incessant babbling.

"Tributes. In a few hours' time you will be presented to the country in a parade designed to showcase each and every one of you. It is a noble sacrifice you are making for the betterment of your country." _Oh please._ "And for that we are grateful. Please await the arrival of your Head Stylist and their crew. Listen to their advice and do as they instruct. Further information will be given in due course."

The intercom shut off and Nikos groaned. He heard Albie shush under her breath but Nikos didn't care. The girl from Four looked over her shoulder at Nikos and winked, grinning. He almost opened his mouth to say something but even he knew it was unwise to do so. Despite his attitude, and despite that he'd got caught up in volunteering because everything had become so overwhelming for him, he actually wanted to live.

The thought of dying – the unknown of it all – scared him. The fact he felt scared only annoyed him further.

He looked opposite where he was sat and caught the eye of a disgruntled looking girl. Dark-skinned with short hair and a huge _11_ stitched to her jacket told him all he needed to know. He'd taken it upon himself in his room on the train to memorise each face and name. Knowledge was just as important as whatever the Careers called brutish skill. He could use what he was learning, bit by bit.

Sheridan glared at him from across the room and Nikos glared back. "That one's got a stick up her ass," Nikos whispered to Albie. "What do you reckon her problem is?"

"Maybe it's the same as all of ours. The fact we're here in the first place."

Nikos was starting to like Albie. She seemed so controlled and refined and strutted about the place like someone had told her how to do it. But she wasn't afraid of throwing it back at Nikos – albeit quietly, away from prying eyes and ears – and he liked that about her.

Before he could reply he was once again interrupted by a set of doors opening. He was shocked by the people that came through. Nikos was seeing colours he didn't even know existed. He'd come from the smog of Three where grey and black were its dominant hues. Here it was mind-boggling what he was witnessing.

A man that looked like a zebra escorted the pair from Twelve away. Then the girl from Eleven who was no longer looking over at Nikos was led with her district partner through the double doors by a morbidly obese cheese-coloured man.

"Is this what they think looks good?"

It was Albie that spoke this time, quietly. Nikos couldn't help but nod wordlessly in agreement. Tribute by tribute, they were led away until the two from Four swaggered off and Nikos and Albie were pounced on by a very eager, very irritating little woman. She was flanked by – in comparison to this midget – two giants with swirls of pink and blue on their skin.

"Albie, that hair is to die for. We can work with it." Her eyes fell on Nikos. "You-"

"I worked so very hard on my hair," Nikos drawled, sarcastically. "It's my favourite feature."

The woman's eyes widened. "Really?"

Nikos didn't think it worth even replying to that. He stood up before he was asked to and with Albie, the odd creatures from the Capitol escorted them through some doors, up a flight of stairs, and down a clinical looking corridor. The luxury of open-space and plant-life mixed with marble features were quickly replaced by silver, white and medical curtains.

 _Something tells me I'm going to hate this. More than I've hated anything else so far._

If it got him sponsors and made him stand out in the Capitol, Nikos knew he would have to swallow down his pride and get on with it. But it didn't make it any easier. This whole thing didn't make sense. It was a mask to cover up where they were headed.

It made more sense to just get to it. Let the Games begin _today._

"Miss Mathison – Albie, can I call you? – you'll be with Yolanda and Perseus." The small woman then looked at Nikos. It was clear she'd decided that she did not like him and that Albie was Three's best chance. Nikos didn't care in the slightest. "You, Mr Rioux, are with me. I'm not quite a God but I've had my fair share of miracles in this room. Perhaps we can make something out of you. Even a broken canvas can be made beautiful with the right artistic eye."

"Broken canvas?" He glared at the lady with contempt. "Am I supposed to trust you enough to let you lay a single finger on me?" The part of Nikos that had told him to suck it up, do what needed to be done, was wavering. It went against his nature allowing these eccentrically dim-witted strangers to do anything to him. He'd rather be back in that room listening to the idiots from One, Two and Four discuss hair product than be staring into this woman's eyes.

Yet he had no choice. He'd actually volunteered to be here. It was his fault, really.

"I suggest you get behind that curtain now before I call security," she said. "Don't tempt me, Mr Rioux."

He sighed, waved half-heartedly at Albie and pulled back the curtain. He stepped through to reveal a slab of metal in the centre. Either side of it looked like two different rooms had been smashed together. Part of it was full of different tools – some looking quite menacing – that appeared medical and expensive. The other half was lavished with colour and different fabrics, a divider set up where a full-length mirror poked over the top of the varnished wood.

"You have got to be kidding me," Nikos said.

"I don't kid, Mr Rioux."

"You can call me Nikos," he added, lying down on the metal table as the woman gestured to it, giving into that voice that told him to just do what he was told for once in his life. "You haven't told me your name."

"I only give my name to people I like," she said, bringing down a mirror from the ceiling and leaning in closer to Nikos. "I've yet to decide where you fall."

 _Suits me._ He hated her, he hated this room, he hated everything.

The irony of being a volunteer.

He was starting to regret his decision.

* * *

 **Teak Underwood, 16 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

"So what are you?"

There was a shriek. "Cynthia! You cannot just ask a person what they are. No matter who that person may be."

Teak's Head Stylist Yennefer moved closer to Teak and grabbed his hand, attempting what he thought was supposed to be comfort, yet came across invasive and patronising. Teak didn't say anything. He hadn't really found his voice since entering the building with Henley.

"Oh," Cynthia bowed her head meekly. "I'm just curious. I want to know what I'm working with."

Teak had grown accustomed to the looks and the questions and the general unsureness that surrounded people that met Teak for the first time. He could deal with ignorance, really. He'd grown up in a world where people had no idea how to deal with him so he'd just learnt to push them away and move on. It made life easier instead of standing up for himself. Fighting back simply wasn't in his nature.

He eyed the stylists with curiosity as they continued to assess his body. He'd felt very uncomfortable to begin with. But when he thought about it, even Cynthia with her ignorant questions didn't seem like … people. He felt bad when he thought of it that way, but they looked so very odd that if thought about it that way, he didn't really mind being poked and prodded by these complete strangers. It didn't matter so much.

"I like your hair," Teak said, quietly above the whir of something that was massaging ointments into his legs. It tickled. "How do you get it to look so pointy?"

He realised they liked to talk about fashion and themselves so Teak felt like it was only polite to go off on a tangent that mattered to them. Henley was quiet and a bit brooding, talkative if she was in a good mood, but quiet and closed-off if something was going on behind her tired eyes. He'd learnt to keep quiet around those kinds of people. He liked her though. She seemed friendly but broken through experience. He could understand that.

Yennefer twirled a bit of the fuchsia coloured hair she had and smiled brightly. "I'm glad you asked. I'm afraid we don't have time for your hair to look quite like mine, but if you ever fancy having a go if – I mean, you're my district so I guess I should say when – you get back, then I can show you a few tricks I've learnt over the years."

"That would be delightful," Teak said back. He kind of liked her in a weird way. She was bubbly and a bit dim but she spoke to him and snapped back at Cynthia if she said something slightly distasteful. It felt protective. Out of sorts and completely wrong given where they were, but he was warming to her and this situation. He had to try and see the positives rather than the cruel truths.

"I think we're done here," Cynthia said from somewhere lower down Teak's body. "He's been washed and prepped. I think it's time we got him dressed."

"What is the Pereira girl wearing again?" The delicate voice belonged to the third person in the room – Julio, a quiet man with a forked tongue that sent a shiver down Teak's spine when he saw flashes of it.

Yennefer rolled her eyes with a chuckle. "You're stylists from District Five. We have been working on these outfits for ages."

"Didn't we just dig them out from last year and-"

"Cynthia!" Yennefer snapped. "Of course not, Teak. You needn't worry." She placed a hand on Teak's shoulder. He didn't exactly care if the fashion came from last year. He didn't understand the pride people put on their appearances. There were definitely more important things to worry about.

From behind an ornately carved divider in the room, Yennefer pulled out his outfit for the Tribute Parade. It was protective gear, black and yellow with what looked like some sort of symbol representing nuclear energy. It had been cinched in at the waist though, wires that were perhaps meant to look fashionable falling from the chest and stomach.

 _It's… hideous._ Teak didn't say anything, though. He nodded at Yennefer as she brought it closer to him and watched him intently for any sort of reaction. It took him a moment to really put his mind together to focus on what he was supposed to look like. They were so sensitive. He understood it though – their hard work had gone into this and they only wanted it to be acknowledged. He rarely felt good enough in what he did. He'd hate to be the source for someone doubting their efforts.

"I think it's," he swallowed the unsureness away and nodded, grinning, "it's artistic. I think it's one of the more unique outfits I've seen." He vaguely remembered something similar from last year but Cynthia was wrong about it being a carbon-copy. They'd modified some of it. _I guess that makes it a little bit less creepy. The male from Five died last year. He wore this once. Right here._ Teak frowned at the thought and again he felt the niggling sensation of fear swirl through his stomach. "Has Henley got the same thing?" She was a good distraction his District partner. She didn't give him much but he appreciated her presence nonetheless.

"Get yourself dressed and we can show you Miss Pereira very shortly," Yennefer said, handing over the outfit.

She gestured to where Teak was supposed to get ready. He awkwardly hobbled behind the wooden divider and eyed the mirror. He suddenly felt very nervous. This wasn't right. He'd been reaped to go into the Hunger Games, not a fashion show. He wasn't all glitz and glam. He didn't look right. There was a lot wrong with him and if he went out there he'd look a hot fool and the cameras would notice and the people would laugh and-

"Sometime today, Teak!" Cynthia called out, laughing.

 _Stop it._ Teak closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath and opened them. He looked awkward in the mirror, all skin and bone with nothing remarkable about any part of himself. He felt a sideshow freak as he put on the outfit but it didn't matter. He would have Henley. He was sure the rest of the tributes would look just as silly. They could unite in their discomfort.

"I'm ready!" Teak called out.

The worst was yet to come.

* * *

 **Celestin Elan, 17 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

The clothes were tight. Way too tight.

Celestin picked the elastic fabric from his arm and pulled it as hard as he could. When it let go it snapped back harshly against his skin and he rolled his eyes, pulling at the bits of ribbon that dangled by his ears. He had no idea what he was supposed to be. It was a mismatch of ideas that seemed to focus on merging every type of transportation driver into one outfit.

 _Welcome to the Capitol ladies and gentlemen,_ he thought. _Please leave your brains at the door._

"This is ridiculous," Maisley said.

He met his district partner in the intersection of the floor they had been prepared on. She looked completely pissed off at their situation and it made Celestin feel mildly impressed by the little girl. Short of stature but full of life. He didn't quite envy her, but he saw spirit and it made him think she actually stood a chance.

Celestin hadn't thought much about his own chances. He hadn't thought much about anything yet. This whole thing screamed inconvenience and quite honestly the barrage of emotions that had hit him on the stage still irked him. He'd never really given himself the opportunity to feel anger or sadness or terror or anything that got in the way of just… existing. But when his name had been called something had slapped him harshly in the face.

The repercussions of that still clung to him as they walked into an open elevator. It unnerved him.

"Did they actually think this was going to look good?" Maisley complained, tugging at her sleeve and wincing as it snapped back. "Where are you taking us anyway?" Her question was directed at the short man that was escorting them around the place. Breanna was nowhere to be seen and their Escort had decided to stay well back from the two of them since the incident with Mayor Corvac.

The thought of that man relinquishing his pristine, eloquent manner made even Celestin happy.

"I would stop picking at it if I were you," Celestin said. "It's shit but it's all we've got. We don't want it falling apart."

Maisley nodded and frowned at Celestin. "I just want this to all go as well as it can. We're supposed to be making an impression." There was a bright _ding_ as the elevator came to a stop. "And dressed like this, we'll be the laughing stock of the whole parade."

"Oh joy," Celestin said, rolling his eyes. The whole idea of fashion being something that could actually help protect his life humoured Celestin. The Capitol certainly had their priorities set straight.

The metallic doors opened and what hit Celestin first was the waft of animal faeces and it made his eyes water. He blinked the tears away as Maisley audibly gagged and together they headed towards the large opening area where a pair of white horses with a _'6'_ embossed on the side stood waiting for them.

"I do not want to do this," Celestin said. His heart had leapt into his throat at the sight of the long line of chariots, tributes from all over Panem mounting their rides or clinging nearby, talking or standing motionless and silent. "I don't … I don't think I can." Something akin to panic was threatening to attack Celestin and he hated it. He'd tried really hard to just forget about where he was and where he was headed and to simply not care. His body wasn't equipped to deal with these emotions that came from all different directions.

He felt Maisley's hand slip into his and he threw it away. "Don't do that. I didn't ask you to do that." Maisley might have been trying to shirk her Corvac name but she was still a rich prissy little girl that probably thought she was better than him. And she was, at the end of the day, competition. They all were. If he wanted to actually live – and despite everything he'd spent his whole life thinking, the pointlessness of it all – the thought of dying _scared_ him.

 _And I don't want to be scared!_

"Those are interesting clothes."

The voice came from behind Maisley and Celestin. It drew him from his panicked mind and he took a deep breath, turning to face the boy and girl from Seven. They were dressed head to toe in bark. The girl had a small bird atop her head. _Genius. Inspired. Unique._

"They're crap," Maisley said. "But it is what it is. Nothing we can do now."

The girl laughed and took a step closer to the pair. Behind her, the boy from Seven lingered for a second before practically latching himself onto her. He seemed scared and a little bit wimpish and Celestin found it sort of funny how he could barely stand on his own feet.

And this girl. Her smile was _too_ big. Maisley's personality grated but she just seemed irritating.

"I'm Sinta. This is Bryce."

The boy raised his hand modestly and half-waved. _Cute._ "H-Hi. If it's any consolation, I don't think we look too good either." He was beginning to find his voice and Maisley responded by closing the gap between them, practically inviting them over.

 _Shit._ Celestin hadn't thought about allies or team-ups or friends or anything in the arena. He'd never had friends. No one wanted to be around Celestin and that was perfectly fine by him. Statistically speaking, his chances were low anyway purely because of his physique, his mentality and where he came from. Would they be lower if he allied with someone that looked like they shat rainbows and kissed kittens? And Maisley … she was young, a bit air-headed, _stupid, if I was to put it harshly._

He didn't want allies.

"Maisley." He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Sinta and Bryce. The girl looked momentarily stunned but smiled when Celestin met her gaze and turned away, leading Bryce back to their chariot.

"What? What's wrong?" Maisley asked.

Celestin grimaced and shook his head. "I don't think we – I mean – I don't think I want to be with them."

"Why?" Maisley looked surprised. "What do you mean be with them? I was just talking."

"Allies, friends, whatever you want to call it. This is the Hunger Games. Are we supposed to just pretend that it isn't?"

Maisley laughed and shook her head. "I was just saying hello, Celestin. Truthfully, I don't want to be allies with them. Or you. No offence."

The comment stunned him and for a second he felt offended then realised how ridiculous that sounded. "What do you mean?"

"I just – I feel myself starting to actually quite like you, Celestin. You're boring, don't say much and you're a privileged piece of shit and don't even realise you are. But you're kinder than you think and I don't want that making me … feel stuff." Celestin opened his mouth to say something but Maisley shook her head, stopping him. "That girl, just from the minute we saw of her, and the boy, they're kind. Decent. They don't win. I don't want to be around that."

"You don't want allies?"

Maisley shook her head again. "I want allies that will help me get out of here. I want to survive, Celestin. I can't do that with you or them."

Her entire mood had changed. Celestin suddenly felt something poking him in his gut and he hated it. He hated this whole situation he had been forced into. He wanted to comfort Maisley and that shocked him. It went against everything he believed in.

She was right. He looked at Maisley and didn't see someone he was able to twist around his finger, or hurt, or even kill. He saw someone that deserved to live. And that just couldn't be possible.

"But maybe, Cel', the kind of person Sinta seems to be is the sort of person _you_ need," Maisley suggested, mounting the chariot and holding the rail steadily. "You might surprise yourself."

She'd spent a long time on the train ride telling stupid stories about Six that Celestin knew were not true. But for once she actually seemed to be making a lot of sense.

Celestin looked at the pair from Seven and for a second his arm began to rise, ready to wave, but he stopped himself, closing his fingers and turning back around. _Do I want allies?_

He'd never really wanted anything but to be left alone.

But his life had been turned upside down.

Perhaps he couldn't be that Celestin anymore. Maybe it was time to be something different.

* * *

 **The Capitol is just so much fun? Even the train rides and the styling is usually something I thought quite boring but it's just refreshing to write again!**

 **Okay so to all those who are actively trying to catch up and probably hating me right now for my fast updates. DON'T WORRY. Honestly – as long as you've read the pre-reapings, if you want to just review from last chapter onwards now that we're in the Capitol, I really don't mind. I'm the one updating hella fast so don't feel like you need to catch up on the stuff before all this. Your choice, though. I ain't gonna complain if you review everything lmao.**

 **Remember to vote on the poll if you haven't! I'm gonna close it soon so.**


	17. Better Days

**Chapter Seventeen.**

* * *

 **Chariot Rides, Part Two.**

* * *

 **Bryce Hayfield, 17 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

He couldn't help but wish he looked a little better, just a _little_ bit.

The whole concept felt silly – that the clothes on his body, his painted face, his glittery hair and the way he held himself actually made a difference. But it didn't change the fact that even if he thought it was pointless, it _mattered._ So he wished his stylist had thought a little bit more out of the box than a tree housing woodland creatures.

"He's a bit rude," Bryce said to Sinta, gesturing towards the boy from Six who had just basically grabbed his district partner and forced her away from them. "Do you reckon it was something I said?"

Sinta laughed. She did that a lot. There was something infectiously optimistic about the way Sinta's laugh rang – like listening to it made everything seem just a little bit better. Bryce hadn't stopped crying for maybe three hours since he'd been Reaped – Zoya's goodbye was the worst thing he'd ever experienced in his entire life – but ever since he'd actually opened up just a little bit with Sinta, she'd made him feel welcome. Comfortable. If he had to be here in this nasty place with anyone, he was over the moon that it was with Sinta.

"He's got a lot on. We all have," Sinta said, shrugging her shoulders. "I don't blame him for it. I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to chat with him. Maybe later on."

Bryce had already decided he wanted to stick by Sinta's side in the arena. Sinta hadn't quite said the words either but it seemed to just be there between the two of them – a wordless bond. He needed that. He just didn't want to let her down. Or show her up. Or make Sinta out to be anything but the confident, thrilling person he genuinely thought she was.

 _I know it's me or her at the end of the day, but it's not fair if I ruin this for her. I can't mess it up._

"I'm nervous." Bryce bit his lip and had to steady himself where he stood in place on the chariot. "What if they hate me?" The possibility hadn't really taken hold much but now that he thought about it, it was all he could focus on. "This whole thing is about getting people to like you and I've never been that great at making friends."

"That surprises me, Bryce. I think you're lovely."

Bryce shook his head. "You might think so but if you got to know me, I don't think you would."

She laughed again, and once more Bryce found it joyous to hear. "Got some secrets have we? Have you secretly trained for this your whole life? Let me guess – you're actually the long-lost son of the President and underneath that smile lies the cold heart of a murderer. I knew it!" Sinta nudged him in the shoulder with a hearty chuckle. "Bryce. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You're a real sweetie."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Sinta said, nodding. "I bet everyone at home adores you and you're just too modest to say so. You must be the apple of your mother's eye."

Bryce's insides went cold and he flinched without meaning to. Sinta paused and where her smile had been plastered on thick this entire time, she actually frowned. It looked alien on her face. Bryce hated it – _like I said, why do I have to ruin everything?!_

"I'm sorry," Sinta said. "I do this sometimes. I shouldn't have brought up your family. My friends call me out on it occasionally and I do listen – I really do. I know not everyone has come from the same place I have. I know that. But-"

For the first time since knowing her, Bryce was the one to place a hand over hers. "Sinta. We're in the Hunger Games. We know that," Bryce gulped, "well we know that only one of us can make it out alive. You could have pushed me away. Let's face it I'm nothing special. I'm just a thin, awkward-looking waste of space and you'd be better off finding someone stronger, someone who actually stands a chance. But you haven't. I don't know how I'd have coped without you."

Sinta's eyes began to water and Bryce watched her blink away the tears. _Oh no, I've made her cry._ "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

She laughed and sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's just – I'm so scared, Bryce. I'm no killer. I'm not a fighter. I don't think I've even hit someone before. Or insulted someone. Bryce – I don't think I've ever even swore!" She closed her eyes tightly, her grip strengthening around the bar, composing herself. Bryce wanted to protect her, so very much, more than anything. She was a ray of light in this dark, dark world. "How can I possibly survive this?"

"Together," Bryce said, him being the one to nudge her playfully this time, knocking her sideways. "I might be useless but you can count on me in that arena. I-I don't think I have much hope, but I'm going to give it my best shot. We're a team."

"Partners," Sinta said, extending a hand with that Sinta-glint in her eye. _Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I thought. Maybe – maybe it's possible for people to actually want to be around me._ "Come on man, don't leave me hanging."

Bryce's fingers met hers and he shook her hand up and down. They knew they were a team but it felt fantastic actually saying it aloud. Around them other tributes were trying to chat with their district partners, or some completely ignoring theirs. Up ahead, the Careers were the loudest and most obnoxious. He knew that Sinta would probably want more people – that was just who she was. But as long as Bryce had Sinta around, he didn't care what anyone else did.

 _But if I want to live…!_

He let go of her hand and pushed that thought away, not allowing it to claw its way into his mind and anchor itself. They knew what their reality was but their present was something simpler. _A fashion show – really._ He had no idea about fashion and looked awkward in even the most basic of clothes, but he'd put on a good show for himself and for Sinta. _Partners, that's what we are. And partners look out for each other._

"For what it's worth, I don't think I've ever really swore before either," Bryce confessed, half-smiling awkwardly. "Not quite my cup of tea."

"Should we try it?" Sinta suggested, laughing. "Right now – maybe it'd do us some good getting it out of our systems."

Bryce looked at Sinta, realised she was dead serious, and then looked around at where they were. If there was ever a place to let loose a little, this was it. He'd been uprooted and taken away from the love of his life. This precious girl had been snatched from her adoring family.

Maybe it would feel good.

Bryce and Sinta took a deep breath and with neither of them caring about who was around them, they did the one thing that they could do to break free, to _feel_ something.

It was amazing.

* * *

 **Spelt Brassard, 16 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

Iva barely registered the loud _"Fuck!"_ that echoed throughout the room.

Spelt couldn't help but smile. It was followed by a high-pitched giggle from a girl somewhere up ahead a couple of chariots down the line.

"Tributes – five minutes to go. I repeat, five minutes to go."

Everyone fell silent as the voice from earlier rang through the intercom. Then as quickly as it went quiet, conversation picked up around the room. The Careers up front were very loud – _too_ loud, for Spelt's liking. There was laughter mixed in with their conversation and it made Spelt uneasy. They were the biggest threats here and they were treating it like nothing but lunch-time at school.

Well, _most_ of them were. He'd seen right from the off that the boy from One seemed vastly different. Eerily different.

Spelt shook the thought from his mind. It was best to focus on something closer to home, a little bit easier for his stomach to handle. This whole being chosen to fight kids his age and probably die thing had shocked him more than anything he'd experienced before. It was still something he was finding hard to believe – him being here, a darling for the Capitol, a prized pig for slaughter. He hadn't really considered it before but now here he was.

At least he had someone from home with him. Even if that person was Iva.

He looked at her out the side of his right eye and quickly snapped back to face the front. They'd barely said two words to each other and at first that had suited Spelt just fine. He'd always preferred the silent company of himself and the little twitching of his pets to anything any other human actually had to say. But this was a brand new situation he found himself in, with brand new people, and part of Spelt was interested in exploring a different side to who he was.

It made him feel uncomfortable but these people were all strangers. Yet the person closest to home hadn't even really looked at him, let alone tried to get to know him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, cleared it awkwardly, and finally decided to have a go at speaking to Iva. "T-This is all pretty crazy, isn't it?"

There was nothing. Not even a glance his way. _Did she hear me?_ "Crazy, right?"

Iva's head began to bob up and down, nodding. "Crazy," she said.

 _Well that's enough conversation for the next week._ Spelt felt the awkwardness seep into his skin – not just her apparent standoffishness, but his own lack of understanding and real desire to actually want to speak. Maybe the different side to himself just did not exist. Maybe he wasn't made to be around people his age. Or any people.

Ahead of him, the voices were louder. He eyed the chariot from Eight and watched the two of them speaking. She seemed a bit cooler to his more jovial chit-chat but at least they were talking. _Castor and Armina. That's their names._ Spelt and Iva had watched the recaps on the train and he'd tried his best to memorise as many people as possible. He preferred to put names to faces. Even if he had no intention of getting to know those very same people.

"Spelt."

He heard his name and for a second didn't register that it had come from Iva's mouth. He'd barely heard her voice so it sounded strange to him. Like she herself wasn't sure she actually wanted to be saying the words that were leaving her lips. _I can understand that._

"Iva?"

Strangely enough, she turned her whole body this time to face him. "I'm not meaning to come across rude and like I don't care." She paused – as if trying to find the words. "It's just – I guess I know how this all ends. I've never been the best at making friends and if I'm honest that part of me I have no intention of changing."

Spelt, again, could understand that. "If it helps, my best friend is a rat."

 _A smile!_ Iva's lips ever so slightly flicked upwards, the dimples in her cheeks vaguely lighting up. "A rat?" Iva said. "As in like, one of those huge grey disease-riddled pests?"

He didn't feel offended by the statement. No one had ever really understood Spelt and his friendliness with the animals but honestly they were just easier than people. Maybe Iva would actually understand that. So many people didn't – but something about her demeanour and her confession to a lack of friends made her seem … _well, like me._

"I feel like they don't judge. Well, I know they don't, because they're rats. Animals are just easier than people, I guess."

Iva nodded her head. "I see that."

"And again if I'm being honest, whilst it's nice having someone from home with me who knows what it's like back in Nine, that doesn't change who I am. Being around people just isn't me."

She smiled at him and he felt elated by it. He felt _seen._ "Let's just agree that whilst we may understand each other, it's the Hunger Games and that's – that's not a place to suddenly become the type of person who makes best friends."

They didn't quite shake on it, but Spelt agreed whole-heartedly. Iva turned her head away from him and Spelt felt content at that. There was no need to say anything else, really. The two were district partners but essentially that was it. There didn't need to be any loyalty between them because loyalty only got people killed in the Games.

For everything Spelt thought of people, he knew that it would be hard having to see them die, or even worse, be the person to hurt them. He'd rebelled against his managers when they asked him to kill the rats; taking them home instead. It just didn't suit him to think that he might have to kill Iva. Or that the two from Eight, chatting away, would have to die so he could _live._

"One minute, tributes. One minute."

Today was about impressing people and Spelt had never had to do that in his life. He'd never wanted to do that. But that didn't change the fact that he had to try.

And try he would.

* * *

 **Shual Armenteros, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

"One minute, tributes. One minute."

Even Shual had been growing impatient with this _waiting._ He was sure it had only been for a maximum of thirty minutes amongst the horses, chariots and tributes, but it had felt like hours. This entire charade didn't really fit well with Shual. He found it contrived; effervescent – pointless.

It wasn't that Shual particularly wanted to go into the Games at all – in fact, he'd rather a lifetime amongst all this pompous luxury the Capitol drowned them in as opposed to actually facing the Arena. But at least he knew how to deal with that a little bit better than this.

Looking at things smartly, observing his surroundings, keeping a cool head – that all made sense to him. Dressing up like some sort of doll for the Capitol to adore. No, no that wasn't Shual at all.

"Ugh."

The sound of Carys complaining had become a common sound he'd grown used to. He looked at her as she began tugging at her outfit, pulling out loose threads and lifting her belt up higher.

"I know it's uncomfortable, but we shouldn't mess around with what the Capitol have put us in," Shual said matter-of-factly. "They want to see us like this so we should do our best to entertain that part of them."

"I'm literally raw down here," she tugged at the fabric round her crotch and Shual looked away, close to blushing. "It's so itchy."

"I don't need to know that, Carys."

She paused her complaining to look at Shual then grinned at him. "They not shave you too?"

He found himself going red. "That's none of your- Why do you care?"

"I don't," she shrugged her shoulders. "But I'm bored and you told me after I stopped cryi- after I left my bedroom on the train that I should try to occupy myself with something other than getting pissed off. So why not chat about this?"

"About what exactly?"

She groaned and rolled her eyes. "You're so annoying, Shual."

Carys went from one extreme emotion to the next and Shual found it exhausting. It almost gave him mental whiplash at how fast she went from either growling the place down and hitting something, to quietening near to silence and realising where she was and going pale in the face, to trying to prod at Shual because it gave her, well what? Entertainment?

He didn't quite understand her but that didn't mean he didn't like her. He'd seen his fair share of people in Ten who had twisted their misfortune into excuses to hate the world. Shual didn't really get using tragedy as fuel for anger. He didn't quite get anyone that displayed such huge arrays of emotion that got in the way of just keeping grounded and focused.

It was why he'd told Carys on the train that he wished her well, but they couldn't be allies. She'd just shrugged her shoulders flippantly, like always, but Shual wondered if maybe that had offended her. She was too chaotic. Too unpredictable. And quite frankly, for Shual, she was too tiring to have around all the time.

Before he could reply to Carys who was now staring forwards, adamant not to make eye contact, the chariot juddered and he realised that District Nine had neared the end of the stables and were heading towards the open strip of red carpet and the raucous applause and cheering of the Capitol.

"Here we go," Carys whispered. Shual saw her grit her teeth and he too felt suddenly uneased. And scared. He didn't like feeling scared. "Let's just get this over with."

He knew what he had to do and he didn't like it. But the truth of the matter was that even if the whole of Panem could see him right now, the only people that mattered were those with money lining their pockets and the people behind the scenes. He was sure tributes that didn't comply were not the sort of tributes that the President wanted to see survive. So he had to be what he thought they wanted to see.

Even if it went against every ounce of being that made Shual who he was.

He was blasted back by the sheer volume of the crowd around him as Ten took to the red carpet, the lights falling on him and Carys. Rows upon rows of screaming Capitolites, dressed in the most bizarre of fashions, colours that popped and overwhelmed each other, threw bouquets of flowers and bits of confetti. It took a second for his senses to rewire themselves and for him to focus in on a camera that he was sure was now zooming in on the two from Ten.

 _At least it's not you here, Jemima. Gawain – look after her._

He beamed for the camera and raised his arm, waving enthusiastically. It felt so false and he hated that about this parade. There was one thing Shual prided himself on – he lived a simple and honest life. He felt like he was going to be sick. But he wouldn't. He _couldn't._

"They love us," Shual whispered to Carys, not out of joy at the sight, but shock that he heard chants of his name and Carys'.

"Yay. I've always wanted to be loved by the Capitol."

Shual rolled his eyes this time and it seemed to come naturally being in Carys' presence. He took every little snippet of a rebellious thought she vocalised with a pinch of salt. Neither of them cared at all what the Capitol thought of them but even Carys knew that she had to play the part if she wanted to live. Say what you wanted about the angry girl, she wanted to survive, and Shual commended her for that.

He heard two new names sweep through the crowds – _Sheridan! Ponche!_ – and realised that the spotlight had now moved away from Ten and towards his competitors behind him. Shual found it difficult to distinguish between the word tribute and the fact that these people were now his competitors. That was why he'd spent ages, much to Carys' chagrin, flicking through the recap over and over, noting down all he could observe mentally about the others.

If he wanted to win, he had to see them for what they were. And if he wanted to win, he'd have to find himself some allies. _Just not Carys. It can't be Carys._ He knew it wasn't even just because she was hard to pin down. He liked her. He really did.

It would hurt too much to see her die.

"Thank Panem it's over," Carys said. They had to sit through the usual spiel given by the President and Shual tried to listen to every word proclaimed but it was difficult to keep focused when he realised how tired he suddenly became. Every muscle in his body ached and all he wanted to do was sleep and be whisked away into a place where he didn't have to stay so switched on.

"I need a shower," Carys complained.

"Me too," Shual said.

They moved away to the other end of the stadium, where the earlier chariots were now coming to a stop. He saw the boy from Four dismount and his stomach flipped uneasily. _Careers,_ he thought. _Watch out for them._ Destan Moreau nor any of the trained volunteers seemed to pay any attention to the other tributes as they got out of their chariots.

Shual didn't mind that. He didn't want any attention on him at all. He just wanted to keep his head down, think about things carefully, and do his best to make it through to the end. Because otherwise, not making it to the end, even coming second, meant death.

And Shual couldn't die.

He just couldn't.

* * *

 **Damon Millers, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

"Well that was something, huh?!"

Their chariot rolled to a stop and Damon took a deep breath. That really had been something else. He felt his heart pumping and couldn't help but smile broadly at just the whole … spectacle. They'd been chanting his name. _Damon! Damon! Damon!_

How could anyone resist that sort of acknowledgement? Part of him knew it was all superficial anyway – pointless really, no one would remember him. What was so special about Damon Millers, from District Twelve of all places? But the fact they'd been giving him his own little slice of the spotlight just felt good. He couldn't help but become excited.

It was a real shame Altia on the other hand didn't seem as enthused by the whole event. She hadn't said a word to Damon this entire time. Occasionally he might catch her staring at him and immediately her head would snap to the left or right and she'd break eye contact. He'd tried to make light of her airing him but it was difficult. Usually he struggled to say the right things to people as much as he loved to just chat and chat and chat. But when someone wasn't giving him something back, it just felt worse.

"Could have maybe been a little bit more original about the whole costume though," Damon laughed as he knocked his miner's helmet with his fist. "Coal. We get it." He laughed and it became quite awkward just standing there next to a silent Altia.

She dismounted from the chariot without a reply or acknowledgement of his presence and ran over to Fynn – their joint mentor – who was waiting for the two of them by a huge glass elevator. _Surely they can wait just a second? I want to see who's who!_

Damon felt a sense of relief being here. Terror, definitely. Unimaginable terror. He knew he wasn't fit for this sort of game. This rampant violence and indiscriminate horror. But this part – the Capitol part where no one apart from Altia and Fynn knew him? It felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and that weight was the man who had raised him. Freeing felt a strange feeling in something like the Hunger Games. But freeing was the only way he could describe it.

Fynn waved him over from across the room and Damon raised a finger. _One minute,_ he mouthed, to which Fynn nodded. Altia began to speak to the man and Damon felt a surge of envy – silly, he knew, but it was there nonetheless. _Why won't she talk to me?_

"What District could you possibly be from?"

Damon realised he had started walking in the general direction of the rest of the tributes and almost bumped heads with the girl that had been in front of their chariot. Her district partner stood next to her but didn't say much, just watching his district partner curiously. _Maybe they don't speak too? Maybe it's not just an Altia-hates-my-guts kind of vibe. Maybe it was just the way of things._

"I'm from Twelve!" Damon said, beaming.

The girl laughed. "Really? I would never have guessed."

Damon didn't quite understand what she meant but he went with it and laughed all the same. "I'm Damon." He extended a hand. The girl arched an eyebrow and ignored the gesture, nodding sideways to her district partner.

"That's Ponche. I'm Sheridan. See you around, Damon."

She led the way, Ponche following, before Damon could say anything else. She didn't seem all that fussed about engaging in a proper conversation. _Oh well._

He went to take another step forward, vying to find someone else to talk to, when he felt someone near him. Damon was surprised to see Altia looking at him. She was actually _looking_ at him. Not even pretending that she hadn't been.

"Fynn wants us to go upstairs. It's been a long day he says. C'mon."

She went to leave but Damon couldn't help himself. Common sense told him that the reason Altia wasn't speaking to him was because there had to be a reason – probably because she knew who his Father was – but he also hated the idea that the one person he was bound to see the most of before the Games wouldn't even talk to him. He wanted to shirk his reputation here. Not be fixed to it.

He grabbed Altia's arm, gently, but it was enough for her to leap backwards, snatching it from his grasp.

"Don't touch me," she growled.

"I-I…" _I always fuck this up. Talking to people. Fuck's sake, Damon!_ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Let's just go, alright?!"

Damon didn't know what came over him, this sudden courage, but maybe it was because he was determined to no longer let his past define him. Maybe he just wanted to be seen as Damon. For however long there was still a Damon Millers alive in this world.

"Why do you hate me so much? I'm not my Father – you know. I-If that's what it is. I might be a Peacekeeper's son but that does not mean I agree with anything he does. I don't – I-"

"Stop," Altia said.

She was no longer trying to leave. In fact, she took a deep breath and again her eyes met Damon's. She now seemed sad and Damon felt instantly guilty. Around strangers he tried to act all confident, but around people he knew – and here, Altia was the closest person to someone he knew for miles and miles – he just wanted what was best for them.

He didn't want to upset Altia.

"I know you aren't your Father's son, okay?" Altia said, closing her eyes as if now she'd decided she couldn't look at him. "But you look like him. And that doesn't change the fact you are a Millers. I've seen what follows your Father and I've tried to help some people but it's never enough. And your Father – I … I –"

"What?" Damon said, stepping closer.

Altia shook her head. "Look sometimes when you don't live in the cosy heart of Twelve, where everything I'm sure smells of roses and you've never had a hard day in your life, you have to do things to get by. To make money and survive. Let's just say I know your Father, okay. We've met."

Damon wanted to ask more but Altia marched off angrily. He followed with his head bowed, all sense of wanting to get to know people and shake off his old self leaving his body just as quickly as it entered. Now he just felt sad. And useless. His eyes began to well up with tears and he quickly blinked them away. Fynn had seen him cry on the train and told him not to do that where they may be a camera. If Fynn said it then it must be true.

 _How does she know my Father?_

It was no surprise if Altia couldn't bear to look at Damon if that were true. It would be even harder than he thought to become someone else if the person from home – the person he hoped would win if he couldn't – knew the villain behind the family name.

Altia wouldn't look at him when he reached Fynn and ignored the question when he asked how the two of them had got on.

"I'll tell you later," Damon said, smiling at the helpful man. "But she did great," he gestured to Altia. "You should be proud."

Whether she liked him or not, he liked her.

That would just have to be enough.

* * *

 **Long A/N time!**

 **So I know this chapter and the last were called Chariot Rides – but I really don't think it's important to focus in on a bunch of horses and silly costumes when I could develop these guys further and have them interact! So – sorry if you actually like Chariot Rides, maybe next time folks!**

 **I feel like I wanna start asking some questions about this story – make things a bit more interactive. There won't be a question every chapter but since you actually have seen every tribute, my question is:**

 _ **Who do you predict will make an alliance?**_

 **Okay so for the past two chapters I was supposed to give a shout-out to the real MVP of this website. tear that cherry out (yes I know… what a name) has a SYOT and I recommend everyone go over there and submit! Please – if not for me, do it for poor Snaily. Kev aka bobothebear also has a SYOT so please go and submit to him and District11-Olive is still after submissions! Lots of SYOTs around atm guys!**

 **Anyway – just to let everyone know I've decided on an update schedule. I've realised that whilst yes I do love to update quickly and get this story going, it's not actually feasible for me to expect people to read and review these chapters at the rate I'm putting them out and it just means people are probs stressing about catching up. ALSO I feel really guilty if this gets in the way of people reading and reviewing other stuff. So the update schedule is going to be every 3 (sometimes 2) days – that should give people enough time, and also if I continue to write at the rate I am, I'll get ahead of myself with this story which is always a plus. Hope that works for everyone! I guarantee there will no longer be daily updates – even if it's every two days, I won't let it be every single day.**

 **Poll results are up – congrats Britta (and Sophia ;D) you smashed it! Judging by people's reviews from her chapter, I expected nothing less. Don't count anyone out tho – this poll was a bit of fun, it means nothing for the choices I make around deaths and Victor.**


	18. Copy Cat

**Chapter Eighteen.**

* * *

 **Training Day One, Part One.**

* * *

 **Linnea Halvard, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

She woke up eager to get the day going.

The next three days were the defining moment of the time they would spend in the Capitol. Especially with her allies. They hadn't so much as exactly mentioned about teaming up in the short time they'd been around each other, but it went without saying. Part of Linnea enjoyed the traditional aspect of it, that she didn't have to think so much about who would like her, what people thought of her – being away from that criticism made her feel strangely free. But another part of her felt like something – or _someone_ – was twisting at the seams of their alliance and it hadn't even really begun yet.

She couldn't trust any of them, she knew that. The girls were chirpy and peppy and Linnea envied them of their innate ability to just seem so … positive. She was trying her best to be just like them because it presented a good image that she needed. But even amongst their smiles, they were still trained Careers, shaped and moulded into killers. Destan always lingered on the side-lines, watching them and throwing in certain snippets of conversation, but there was something behind his eyes. And Roarke – he seemed quite fixated on Neviya and everything they were saying, but he was still from Two and could be a threat.

She had to start thinking like a proper Career tribute. Whether she didn't share Chancellor's enthusiasm about everything, Linnea was representing One. And if she wanted to live, she had to play the part correctly.

"Last night was great," Linnea said as she walked out into the main living area of their quarters. Chancellor was sat sipping a glass of orange juice, rearing to go just by the way he sat on the edge of his seat. His eyes met Linnea's and she smiled. He just carried on staring. "Sleep well?"

"Do you care?"

"We've been through this, Chancellor. We're allies. District partners. That has to say something, right?"

He grimaced. "I suppose so."

Linnea was doing as well as she could at placating the little demon. It pained her having to act so cordial around him but in the long run it might do her more good than harm. It was easier to chat with the girls because they seemed more natural at having conversation and Linnea didn't feel so left out. She enjoyed mindless chatter over being locked away in her own mind. Plus – she hated the way Chancellor looked at her. The guy gave her the creeps.

"Good. You're both up."

The voice belonged to Ailsa – Victor of the previous Games – who strolled in and didn't so much as grab a slice of toast to eat before ushering them both towards the centre of the room. Linnea was dressed head to toe in her training gear. Something about it felt more natural now as opposed to last night. She'd trained after all for a long, long time. Maybe it wasn't her passion, but at least she knew what to expect of the next three days.

She hated surprises. It unnerved her not having everything under control.

Ailsa turned to speak to the pair of them. "This is training. Don't be the arrogant idiot who sits there tossing a knife for three days." Linnea swore her eyes lingered on Chancellor more so than they did at her, but she couldn't be sure. "Everyone – and I mean _everyone_ – is your competition-"

"-But."

"Don't interrupt her," Linnea said, snapping her attention towards Chancellor. "Have you won the Games? No. She has. Listen."

"I was just going to say I'm not worried about the-"

"Well you should be," Ailsa snapped. "This is the twenty-eighth Games. Is every Victor from the first Games to now from One, Two or Four?"

Linnea shook her head. _Ailsa is right, being a Career doesn't guarantee victory._ Chancellor was too stubborn to relent and just glowered at the two of them. _Immature ass._

"And even if that were the case, there are six of you. _Six._ So don't get cocky. Don't swagger about the place like your victory is assured. And _train._ The amount of you pompous idiots that Savoy has told me about in the past – and I was one, don't get me wrong – that think just because you have trained in the past doesn't mean you shouldn't get some last-minute practice in is insane to hear. Use every second. It's not a pissing contest."

"Charming," Chancellor said. "Are we done?"

Ailsa looked at Linnea as he marched off towards the elevator. Her voice lowered. "Savoy and I have chosen you, okay Linnea. Watch out for that one," she gestured with a flick of her head towards Chancellor who was waiting impatiently. "You know what I'm saying. You've seen it."

Linnea gulped and nodded. Part of her was almost terrified of him. She hated to admit the weakness but it was there. Ailsa was right. They would all have to watch out for him. District partner or not. Ally or not. It did not matter. Chancellor was playing his own game.

"I'll see you later," Linnea said. "The baby wants his toys."

The two young women shared a laugh, Ailsa placed a hand on her shoulder, and off Linnea went to join her partner at the elevator doors. The ride down was silent – Chancellor stared off to the side whilst Linnea couldn't help but watch him out the corner of her eye. Sometimes, Linnea didn't think things through carefully enough. Happy to jump on-board the first train that arrived at the station and that was that. Ailsa was correct about training. This was not about what they already knew. This was about doing their best to learn something different.

It went against a Career's innate pride but she would do her best. She'd seen enough Careers get trapped in that mindset on her large television screen to know what _not_ to do.

"Can you smell that?" Chancellor said as the doors opened revealing the Training Floor. It was huge – expanding towards corners that even Linnea couldn't see from this position with all manner of different weaponry stations and other more survivalist areas. What she could see though, more annoying than ever, was the grin plastered from ear to ear on Chancellor's face. He turned to her and grinned. "The fear."

Linnea rolled her eyes. "Seriously. Where do you get your material from? _Can you smell the fear?_ It's cringe."

Chancellor placed a hand to his chest in mock offence. "I thought we were allies. Aren't we supposed to play nice?"

"Yeah, yeah," Linnea said. Sometimes it was very, very, _very_ hard to play the part with him. Almost impossibly so. "Where first?"

He gazed around the room and Linnea knew exactly where he _wouldn't_ want to go. Ailsa's advice had already gone through one ear and out the other. There would be no way in hell that Chancellor would go near some of the more important, yet tamer and less grandiose stations. Linnea was quite intrigued about learning about different types of poisonous fruit, or how to make shelter, but Chancellor's finger went straight towards the archery station.

"Let's show the _scum_ what a real Victor looks like."

He clapped his hands and literally pushed one of the tributes to the floor as she crossed paths with him. The girl stayed put as Linnea stepped near her. _Armina, District Eight._ Linnea knew each and every face. Any one of these tributes could be a threat – even if it hurt her innate pride that stemmed from living in One just a little to admit that.

She watched Chancellor pick up a bow and immediately start shooting arrow after arrow. The first thing that struck Linnea as she watched was the prickling sensation of fear in her stomach as every single arrow hit the bulls-eye. His talent was unquestionable. The second was the smile – that _smile._ It worried, Linnea. Allies or not. District partners or not - it didn't matter.

Something about the smile told Linnea that perhaps tradition was not always a good thing. That perhaps, Linnea would have to be forward-thinking, and not just run along with what felt _easier._

She had to think about herself, but also the more accommodating of her allies.

 _That smile. Always that smile._

Another thrum of the bow and the whistle of the arrow and she heard Chancellor yelp with joy as she walked over to Neviya and Britta who were starting off the morning with a chat. _No surprise there._

They beamed when they saw Linnea and she waved back. But this time she did not smile. Two girls like Neviya and Britta, eternally optimistic, knew something was up immediately and stepped closer.

"What's up?" Britta asked.

Linnea thought of that smile and heard another cheer from somewhere in the background.

"We have a problem."

* * *

 **Sinta Montero, 16 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

"Just try again, Bryce," Sinta said. "Have you ever used a spear before?"

Bryce looked over his shoulder at Sinta. _Bless him,_ she thought. His face was pasty white and his shoulders were shaking. The weapon looked completely foreign in his hands and with good reason. They weren't kidding anyone. But Sinta knew that they had to at least attempt their best so she was trying her hardest to encourage him.

She refused to give up. She'd help boost his confidence no matter what. He deserved to feel like he had a shot at this.

"I just can't get it to hit the dummy."

"Maybe twist your hips a bit more," Sinta suggested. When Bryce just stared at her she couldn't help but giggle. "What the heck do I know? Just do something different to what you're already doing."

"Listen to your friend."

The trainer in charge of this station had been standing by amused at Bryce's failings. Sinta found it slightly annoying – the occupation _trainer_ indicated that he should have been doing something to assist Bryce. He couldn't have been much older than Sinta, judging by the way he looked and also the way he stood. Like he couldn't be bothered with where he was.

The trainer couldn't help himself as Bryce threw and missed completely. "Think about everything you're doing and just … _don't._ " He laughed. "Be a little less you."

Sinta found herself flushing red and marched over towards the man. "Excuse me but if you aren't going to do your job, could you stop making fun of him. We're from Seven. Do you really think we throw spears at dummies for a living?"

The man blushed and shook his head. He edged closer towards Bryce and positioned his hands delicately round his waist and straightened his shoulders. Sinta watched the two of them content with the fact that she had stepped in. Maybe she didn't quite understand why Bryce was down on himself when clearly there was nothing wrong with him, but the least she could do was help him. The fact he was trying spoke for itself.

The spear flew through the air and sliced into the side of one of the dummies. Bryce yelped – half out of terror, half out of gleeful surprise. The trainer slow-clapped and moved quickly, side-stepping Sinta as she walked towards Bryce.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at the man who went to pick up all the failed attempts thrown by Bryce. "Maybe you can help me later on?"

"Yeah," he said, attempting a smile. "Just give me a shout."

Sinta wrapped her arm round Bryce and pulled him in close. Sure, if Sinta thought about it, she did not really know Bryce at all. But something about this entire place felt like friendships had to be rushed and if she wanted to make a close friend she didn't really have much time to build up that trust.

Bryce didn't seem untrustworthy, either. Not in the slightest.

"Where to next?" Sinta asked.

Bryce's eye scanned the room and he pointed rather vaguely over at a climbing net. The entire room was so large that Sinta could barely see every tribute. To the far right there was a line of chairs and a closed counter which perhaps meant lunch of some kind. Mixed in with all the weaponry stations were others that Sinta and Bryce knew they'd probably feel more comfortable at, but they needed to know weapons.

Sinta wasn't blind or ignorant to where they were. The thought of having to use a spear shook her to her very core but the harsh truth was that a spear would very soon become quite a useful thing to know how to use. But right now – Bryce wanted to climb. And climb they would.

The two walked over to the net and up close they both realised how high it actually was. There were mats below but even here they felt a bit like concrete with how hard they were beneath Sinta's shoes. She looked at Bryce who after slowly regaining colour, seemed to pale straight away.

"I don't think I can do this," Bryce said. "Maybe I should practice throwing another spear."

"Don't be silly. I'll climb up with you."

He seemed to calm down at the idea and Sinta grinned at him. They waited in line behind one of the other tributes – Sinta didn't quite recognise whoever it was but she wasn't one to push in front so together with Bryce they stood patiently. The young man seemed hesitant when he noticed he had company and smiled shyly.

Sinta beamed. "Take your time."

He nodded and grabbed onto the rope, easing his foot carefully onto the net and then lifting himself up. "Maybe we shouldn't watch?" Bryce suggested.

"Oh. Why?"

"I know that if it were me, and in a second it will be, I'd feel slightly uncomfortable being watched by a complete stranger."

Sinta laughed. "It's just climbing."

"Yeah but-"

There was a yell and before Sinta could do anything to help, he came crashing down to the mats, crying out with pain as he connected with the floor. "Oh no!" Sinta ran over to him and Bryce lingered behind her as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do you need someone? Like a medic or a – I don't know, someone?"

The boy winced but shook his head. "I don't think so. Who knew climbing could be so difficult?"

Sinta shrugged, grabbing his hand and helping him to his feet. "Let's just hope the arena isn't a giant net."

He laughed and where a minute ago he'd seemed quite nervous at their arrival, he now looked at Sinta more warmly. "I'm Teak," he said. "District Five."

"Sinta. District Seven."

"And I'm Bryce." Her district partner – her ally, her _friend_ – took a step forwards and extended his hand. Teak looked at it and Bryce blushed. "Sorry, I-"

After a moment thinking about it, Teak's fingers intertwined with Bryce's and the two shook hands. Teak gestured towards the rope and winced again as he put pressure on his leg. "Wanna give this a go?"

"I think I'll stick with spears," Bryce said, stepping backwards.

"Want to join us?" Sinta asked.

The proposal of an alliance wasn't exactly the way Sinta had worded it, but she quickly shared a sideways glance with Bryce and after a nod, Sinta knew precisely what she was really asking.

"I can try my best," Teak said, smiling.

"Just don't ask the trainer. He's a little bit useless," Sinta laughed. "C'mon."

The three of them waltzed on over back towards the spears and Sinta couldn't help herself but chuckle as the young man rolled his eyes at her return.

"Back again!"

He stared at her. "Yay."

 _Bryce and now Teak._ Perhaps the Hunger Games didn't have to be such a lonely place.

Perhaps a friend – or friends – didn't need to be synonymous with weakness.

They could be her strength.

* * *

 **Castor Velboa, 17 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

Armina had barely made it five inches from the camouflage station when she turned around to face Castor, narrowing her eyes at him. He snickered and rolled his eyes.

"Not liking my company?"

Armina shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure. Does my walking-away-from-you-at-every-second tell you otherwise?"

"Touche."

She sighed deeply and gestured to the room around her. "Look. I'm just doing what Jericho said. Not sticking to your side instantly before taking it all in and seeing who's who. You never know what's out there."

"Death, blood, gore, more death," Castor said, counting on his fingers. "I'm pretty sure I know where I am."

Castor liked Armina and he knew that she liked him too. They were playful the two of them. And he appreciated the fact she actually spoke to him like an equal despite where she came from and where he clearly had fought to break free of. She hadn't judged him when his heart told him to come clean about his thieving exploits – his brain had perhaps told him to withhold such information, but he hadn't been able to help himself. Plus, she hadn't actually told him to go away per se. He enjoyed her presence.

Jericho was world-weary in a way that made sense for his experiences. Castor hoped that if – _no, Castor, when, you have to believe in yourself_ – he came back, he wouldn't be like the man. He hoped he still had a bit of a spark left. That he enjoyed his life because he'd fought so hard to save it.

"I just think we need to broaden our horizons. Plus, well, remember what else he said…" Armina paused, this time frowning.

Castor had tried to pay as much attention to their wizened mentor as he could but he'd also become insanely distracted on the train and in their Capitol quarters. It was just the _food._ It was utterly glorious how much they could stack onto a silver plate.

"Something about watching our backs? Don't trust anyone?"

Armina scowled. "Do you not know anything about our only Victor? Seriously?"

"I get distracted," Castor said, waving her comment away.

"He's not exactly liked by a lot of people. His only ally was his District partner and it came down to them and he had to kill her. He had to, at the end of the day, because it was him or her. But imagine going home to a District where there are people – family and friends – of a girl that you'd killed. It's not a nice life, I imagine."

Castor ruminated on the concept for a second. Armina was true. He couldn't imagine himself killing her. Truthfully, he couldn't imagine himself killing anyone but that thought was for a later day.

"So what you're basically saying is, I need to leave you alone so we can see who else is out there?"

She nodded with a smile. "I like you Castor but let's just _see_. There's no harm in it."

Castor extended his hand playfully and with an exaggerated groan she shook it and stalked away towards another station. Castor turned around where he was stood and let his eyes hover around the gymnasium. Armina would be out there in her weird combination of harshness and friendliness, trying to find allies that would help her in the Games. He had to find some of his own. The idea of going in there alone without someone to bounce conversation off chilled him to his core. _I'll go insane if I can't at least say good morning to someone. I need another face besides my own._

He continued to observe the room, telling himself to really think this through, that this was the most important thing that he would be doing today and over the next few days. That perhaps even his own survival depended on it. But when Castor's eyes fell on a solemn looking boy playing with a few berries and sorting them into piles, something willed Castor towards him, pushing him across the hardwood floor until the trainer caught his eye and waved.

"Hiya," Castor chimed. "Mind if I join?"

The trainer beamed. _Cute._ "Of course!"

"I was really asking him, to be honest. No offence," Castor said, gesturing to the boy on the ground. _11_ was on his sleeve. He racked his brain for the information he'd tried to at least pay attention to. _Pablo? Poncho? Ponche!_ "Hi Ponche."

The boy looked up and then looked down awkwardly. "Hi," he mumbled.

"Do you mind?"

Without making eye contact this time, Ponche shook his head. "Go for it."

The trainer slinked off miserably. Castor felt a ripple of guilt but shook it away. He was here for Ponche – something told him this was it. The person he'd been trying to find for… ten seconds. It made sense.

The boy returned to sorting out the berries into small little sections he'd made out of snapped twigs. Castor pointed to a large red one. "Would I die if I ate that?"

"Bit morbid to say."

Castor shrugged. "Just want to be safe, I guess. Would I die?"

"No," Ponche said, shaking his head. "But they might give you an upset stomach."

"How upset we talking?"

"Uh-"

"Will I need to sponsored a load of toilet paper if I ate those berries?" Ponche wrinkled his nose and Castor laughed, clapping him on the back. "Only messing. So stay away from those large bright red ones. What about those?"

It went on like that for about ten minutes until Castor felt like he'd acquired a little bit of knowledge. Ponche himself seemed unsure with every snippet of advice he gave but as he delivered more and more information, he seemed to grow in confidence which made Castor feel good about himself. _I did that,_ he thought. _Maybe sometimes following my gut is a good thing._ He saw Armina in the distance still alone and here he was, sat with Ponche, where the kid who had looked so down in the dumps actually smiled a tad as he picked up a small purple berry and squeezed it.

"I wouldn't recommend trying it, though. It has a nasty after-"

"Do you want to be allies?" Castor interrupted.

Ponche looked at the berry. Then his eyes glanced over at the trainer. The young man had been prying the entire time and he shrugged at Ponche's look and walked away awkwardly, sliding to the right.

"Shall I repeat?" Castor said, grinning.

Ponche dropped the berry and his smile twisted into something that looked a bit unsure. Castor felt nervousness creep into his stomach but willed it away. This choice just seemed right. Something clicked. Castor had to run with it.

"I don't even know anything about you, Castor."

"Then ask away and I'll be completely, totally honest with you."

Ponche's eyebrows furrowed in silent thought. "Okay, what is your-"

"-But only," Castor interrupted, "if you say yes."

His hand hung there for a second, which extended into ten seconds, and for a moment Castor thought Ponche wouldn't shake it. But when the boy did hesitantly, Castor's fingers clasped round tight and he shook it fervently, up and down, happiness erupting out of every pore.

"Fantastic," Castor said, beaming. "Now what's your question?"

 _My first ally!_

Armina was right.

This was definitely the way to go.

* * *

 **Sheridan Sannah, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

They were nearing noon on their first training day.

Sheridan had mostly kept to herself as best as she could. An hour or so ago, she'd seen Ponche chatting it up with the boy from Eight which had her feeling mildly happy for him. It'd do him good to find someone to watch his back come the Games. Sheridan was still completely torn between what the best path was for herself – to go it alone, or to find someone. Inherently she found it very difficult to see past the fact that these Games were a do or die situation and for twenty-three of them no matter how much they _did_ the best to survive, only one would.

She was scared but had refused to admit that to herself so preoccupied her time throwing axes at still targets. It amused her to watch how epically she had failed to begin with because it was easier than admitting she really was completely out of her depth here. Staying as far away from the others as possible made it easier to watch them from afar and see who was the biggest competition and who she could overlook. _For now I can ignore them – everyone here is a viable threat. Anyone could surprise me._

"Now can I have a go at helping you?"

Sheridan looked at the small little woman that had been awkwardly standing back since she'd arrived and dismissed her immediately. She was from the Capitol and part of Sheridan was too stubborn to admit to the fact that she actually was here to help. She glanced over at all the axes that had completely failed to make any sort of attempt at hitting their target and she shrugged her shoulders.

"No harm I suppose," she said.

The trainer smiled and demonstrated the best technique on bringing the axe upwards, twisting her body to follow through with the motion and the best place to release. Sheridan wiped the sweat from her brow and smiled just a little when the axe managed to sink into the target's lower half.

"Now if I can just get all the tributes to stand still, I'll be set," Sheridan joked. "Thanks, I guess."

Before Sheridan could pick up another weapon and practice the new technique, she heard a set of voices behind her, getting closer and closer. _Ugh,_ Sheridan thought. It was purely out of instinct. She'd kind of gotten used to being on her lonesome at the moment and part of her couldn't help but distrust each and every one of them. Even the three tributes that took their place next to her, eager to have a go at throwing the axes, smiles plastered ear to ear.

"Teak – why not try this one?" The girl seemed to be in charge of the small group whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not. "It seems light enough."

"I'm not sure, Sinta. You two are from Seven. Aren't axes more your thing?"

Sheridan sniggered. "Stereotyping at its finest."

None of them heard her and they happily went about their business, tossing axes that barely did any damage and minding their own. Sheridan couldn't help however but pick up on the smiles and laughter and the general glee that they exuded.

Especially _her._ Sheridan hadn't thrown a single axe since she'd noticed how close their group seemed. And the girl hadn't stopped smiling and laughing and giggling and being a general ray of sick-worthy sunshine.

Even the way her hair caught a ripple of light from the high-beam fixtures in the ceiling reminded Sheridan briefly of … _no._ A glimpse of Saraya and Sheridan found her palms going sweaty. The two shared nothing in common except the fact that Sheridan had barely seen either without a smile on their faces. Even when Sheridan had shown snippets of her usual personality and snapped back at Saraya, she'd always taken her hand and held it close.

Sinta was just another tribute, another death that had to happen, another obstacle. And she didn't know her. Or the two boys. Which meant they couldn't be trusted.

"Hey. Do you mind showing us how you did that?"

Sheridan realised that as she got caught up in staring at the small group, their attention had now turned to her. She saw that she was holding an axe and Sinta was watching her intently, smiling, always smiling. "You seem pretty handy with it and I can't seem to hit anything."

Sheridan didn't respond. The boy from Five stepped forwards, raising his own axe. "I can't quite hold it properly. Can you show me?"

 _Don't trust them. You can't. You don't know them. You don't._

"No," Sheridan said, turning away, feeling embarrassed with herself. "No, I can't."

Oh," Sinta's face fell. "Oh. No worries then."

Before she could go back to attempting at throwing an axe, someone else had joined the station that Sheridan had been enjoying by herself. Only this someone wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. This someone sent a shiver down Sheridan's spine.

With a _1_ stitched into his sleeve, Chancellor Darrian grabbed an axe from the rack and grinned – no, leered – at the group next to Sheridan. "What have we got here? Can't hit the targets, hm? Watch and learn."

Chancellor's aim was impeccable and he sliced the head off one of the targets. The boy from Seven – Bryce – yelped fearfully and Teak's face went even paler. Sinta, however, just smiled back.

"You can throw. Well done."

"Don't talk to me, _filth._ " Chancellor snapped, stepping towards her. "You're nothing more than numbers to fall. Notches on my bow. _Scum._ "

Sinta had now fallen silent and Sheridan heard a fearful whimper escape her mouth. It sounded strange from a girl that in the past five minutes of being near Sheridan had been nothing but sing-song voice and laughter. Something inside Sheridan's gut twisted – something made her face start to warm up, her fingers clench round the un-thrown axe in her hand.

 _Don't._

"H-Hey, you shouldn't talk to us like that," Bryce said from where he stood next to Sinta.

"Shouldn't you be with your allies anyway?" Teak asked. "We're just minding our own business."

"I came over to show you how its done and to show you what you're up against," Chancellor said. "And you," he stepped even closer to Sinta whose eyes were widening by the second, "I don't like at all. Not one little bit."

When he pushed her backwards and Sinta fell harshly on the floor, crying aloud, Sheridan saw the first tear roll down the bridge of her nose and she snapped. She saw Saraya in Sinta – she saw a kind girl wanting nothing more than to inject the world with something it had lost. It was the sort of person Sheridan wished she could be but found it so difficult to become. It didn't matter who the bully was – a bully was a bully.

"Don't you lay a finger on her," Sheridan marched between the two them, shoving the boy from One back. Momentarily he looked stunned, then rage contorted his face.

"How dare you lay a dirty finger on me? I could-"

"-Could what? Gut me? Slice me open? Welcome to the Hunger Games. But save it for later – she's just training. We're all doing the best we can with what we've got."

"I don't like her voice," Chancellor pointed at Sinta, glowering.

"And I don't like your face but sadly I'm stuck looking at it. Now piss off."

Chancellor growled and stepped forwards but this time even Teak and Bryce joined Sheridan's side, blocking him from Sinta. He stopped in his tracks, looked at all of them, and if possible, his face got even angrier. It looked demonic.

"You'll all be first. All of you."

Sheridan narrowed her eyes at him. "We can't all be first. That's not what first means."

He stomped off bitterly and Sheridan reached out a hand, helping Sinta to her feet.

 _What did I do?_ Sheridan's brain was on haywire and immediately part of her regretted it. But part of her felt good – elated even. Maybe she didn't know them, but they certainly did not deserve that, no one did.

"Thank you," Sinta said.

Sheridan lowered her eyes. "Don't mention it."

There was a pause followed by Sinta looking at both Bryce and Teak. A nod went between them and Sheridan's stomach somersaulted. _Oh no… please don't ask me._

"Do you want to join us? Now I mean – and in the – in the Games?"

 _You don't know them. This isn't a place to make friends. You can't trust anybody. Look out for yourself and yourself alone._

That was the mantra that she'd always lived by. But then Saraya had come along and her world view had begun to change.

She saw Sinta's eyes relax, the wet tears around her face beginning to dry up and the fear from a moment ago vanish. That had been because of Sheridan. Because of an act of kindness _she_ had displayed.

"I-I'll think about it," Sheridan said, before turning to walk away.

She had a lot to think about.

Nothing was making sense. Not the fact she'd stood up against a Career. Not the fact that something in Sinta was drawing Sheridan towards her. None of it.

It wasn't who she was. But she liked it. And that only confused her more.

* * *

 **Hm let's ask another question they're always fun.**

 _ **If you were in the Hunger Games with this batch of tributes, who would you realistically see yourself allying with?**_

 **oooOOOOooo what's happening with the Careers hm.**

 **Anyway confirmed alliances so far: Teak + Bryce + Sinta and Castor + Ponche. Let's see what else takes place! Every tribute btw is going to be getting a training POV – that means lots of training but tbh it's my favourite part of the Capitol.**

 **I really do my best to share the spotlight amongst the tributes in POVs. That means this story isn't going to be Career centred, but naturally with six of them, they do focus a lot in some chapters more than others (this one not so much – but later on yeah probs.) Same with other tributes depending on the alliances I've made – for example the D7 pair have appeared a lot recently, BUT they've now both had their first Capitol POV. It's a balancing act really and it can be tough but I'll do my best to give everyone their fair share of focus.**

 **Thanks for reading n reviewing!**


	19. Checkmate

**Chapter Nineteen.**

* * *

 **Training Day One, Part Two.**

* * *

 **Britta Somerset, 18 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

Britta looked at the two girls moving away from the station they'd been training at and joined her, Linnea to her left and Neviya to her right, as the bell tolled for lunch.

"We can discuss it later," Linnea said.

Britta nodded. Neviya bit her bottom lip nervously.

"Won't be too difficult for us to act like nothing's up. Besides, Chance' is kinda cute," Britta said with a hearty laugh.

Linnea's nose wrinkled and Neviya couldn't help but giggle. Britta wrapped her arms round the two girls and pulled them in close. Sure – it was sort of fake. Britta didn't know the two of them and back home they would have fallen into the group of girls that were just faces and mindless personalities that Britta had loved to surround herself with. But here they were a breath of fresh air. Part of Britta had been nervous coming into this that everyone would be so goddamn serious and sulking about the shadows. Luckily for Britta, she'd found two kindred spirits. _And Roarke,_ she thought amusing herself. _He's cute. Like a puppy._

They hadn't had much time to talk since Linnea had approached them a few hours ago. It was true what she'd suggested though that within their alliance there was a problem. Britta hadn't really wanted this early on to have to _think_ so much about things. She'd thought training would be a blast. Linnea was correct, she had to admit. This whole mess would need sorting out.

"Look at all the food," Neviya said, blowing a chef's-kiss. "Marvellous!"

"I don't do cake," Britta said as they got in line behind some shorter, scrawnier looking tributes. She hadn't bothered learning their names. "A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips."

"That's boring." Neviya rolled her eyes.

Britta prodded her in the waist. "I'm guessing chocolate. Or maybe a vanilla sponge."

"Fuck off," Neviya groaned playfully, swiping her finger away.

"And welcome to the boys!"

Linnea's exclamation cut Britta off before she could make another remark. She watched as Chancellor led Roarke and Destan to join them. A dark-skinned girl, tall and thin, stood behind the three Career girls and in front of an approaching Chancellor.

"Move," he growled.

The girl looked at him and for a second Britta almost prayed she'd defy him just for a good show. A second later, however, she relented and stepped aside, allowing the males from One, Two and Four to meet their more talented, and obviously better-looking counterparts.

"Iva Giorgi," Linnea whispered into Britta's ear. "District Nine. She hasn't got an ally yet."

"And you're telling me this why?" Britta laughed.

Neviya stepped forwards, raising a finger. "I think it's actually important we watch the other tributes. Linnea made a good point – her mentor did mention the fact that not every Victor is from a Career district."

"Enough," Chancellor groaned, pushing Britta and the two other girls aside. "I don't want to hear anymore of this crap that someone other than one of us is going to win."

Britta clapped the mean little man on the back and rubbed his hair. He hated it, clearly, by the way his face contorted with absolute fury, but Britta found it amusing all the same. "C'mon guys. A bit of Career confidence. It's in our brand!"

"Britta's right," Destan said, stepping forwards to pick up a tray and smother his plate with two chunky sausages and a spoonful of peas. "What are we if not the ones to root for out of everyone?"

"My good ol' pal Destan. So very true!" Britta called, winking at him. "Been training by the way? I like a man all sweaty." She laughed and Destan for a moment seemed perplexed at how to respond, but Britta just rolled her eyes and he joined in, chuckling brightly.

The group of Careers quickly piled their plates high and moved for the table in the centre. Other tributes who were predominately on their own seemed to sweep themselves aside as the dominant pack took their rightful place. Britta watched them all for a moment and relished it. Not so much their fear and looks of terror, Britta wasn't here for that. But attention was attention and there was something absolutely delicious about being seen as such a threat.

This was what she was here for.

Lunch went about quite quickly. Britta noticed how Chancellor barely said anything aside from swallowing his food down like a vacuum cleaner and rushing off to get his hands on more shiny toys. Roarke and Neviya chatted enthusiastically. Destan tried his best to keep up with Britta and Linnea but occasionally he'd go quiet and it made Britta feel pity for the poor boy.

Not everyone had been blessed with perfect social grace.

As tributes started to leave the dining area, Britta clapped her hands. "I think we should stick to our strategy for today and maybe change things up tomorrow." Her eyes glanced momentarily on Linnea and Neviya. She needed the girls alone. "Boys, go find Chancellor and make sure he hasn't gutted someone just yet. Keep him focused and maybe try something different."

Linnea had told her it was important to learn something new. Britta didn't really see the point. Exerting her mind to make room for a new skill hadn't exactly been on her to-do list over the Capitol. She knew what she knew and Britta was very aware that she packed a killer punch.

"Fine by me," Roarke said. "Hopefully we can train together tomorrow."

His eyes were on Neviya who beamed back at him genuinely and nodded. "Of course. See you later!"

Destan however lingered as Roarke skipped away. "I guess I'll see you soon."

"Enjoy yourself!" Britta said, waving.

He half-heartedly waved back and walked slowly after Roarke.

The girls didn't say anything as they traipsed cautiously back towards the throwing knives they'd been practicing on. Linnea threw one and skewered the dummy's heart. Neviya picked her fingernails with the point whilst Britta just stood there.

"You've made me nervous, Linnea. And nerves don't do well for my stress lines."

Linnea held a knife close to her chest and then pointed it towards where Chancellor stood. She couldn't see either Roarke or Destan but the boys most likely were standing back, letting the angry boy be angry.

"Look. We all know where we are. Only one of us can win this. But I'd like to think that we've got a good relationship going on-"

"The best!" Neviya chimed.

"Maybe don't interrupt her babe," Britta said, laughing at Neviya. "We've been waiting all day to sort this mess out."

Neviya nodded, smile dropping. "Sorry."

"That relationship isn't going to work with someone like Chancellor around," Linnea continued. "I don't know about you but I'm aware that I'm going to have to kill, but I don't _love_ doing it. I don't even like it. It is what it is. He would happily slice all our throats and most likely make angels in our blood."

"Lovely," Britta remarked.

"He's a threat to us. It's been done before in the Games – sometimes successfully, other times not so well. I'm just saying – let's keep the bond we have, play nice with him, and – well – I think we should get rid of him straight away. For our sakes."

 _Kill our ally in the bloodbath? Scandalous!_

Neviya looked at Britta, then at Linnea, and nodded her head. "She's right. Just look at him. It's unnerving."

Britta couldn't help but agree with the girls. Chancellor was too loose a cannon, too much of a child playing with crayons where the colour he preferred was the blood of the kids around him. If it had to happen, then so be it.

"So all smiles, bat our eyelashes a little, and then-" Britta mimed stabbing him in the gut, "-he's gone, like that?"

"Like that," Linnea said, nodding. "We just can't risk him."

"We have to get Roarke on board," Neviya said. "And Destan."

Britta nodded in agreement. "We're stronger together. They might be boys but I think we can rely on them to help."

The drama was food for Britta and she relished in it. But the strategy was there too – the importance of what they were doing. Britta was quite envious of the way Linnea and even Neviya seemed to look at the Games, pulling little strings and seeing things that she couldn't really spot.

It might be called the Hunger _Games,_ but she knew it wasn't actually a game.

She was here to win.

The alternative was simply impossible.

She liked living too much.

* * *

 **Destan Moreau, 18 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

 _Interesting._

"We have to get Roarke on board. And Destan," Neviya said from where she stood, playing with a knife.

 _Very interesting._

Destan slid away from the shadows of the trees that overwhelmed the station he'd been lingering at. Britta could try as she pleased to be ever so _sweet_ at the suggestion that Destan should continue clinging to their pet Chancellor but he'd seen something between those girls. Roarke was too naïve to notice. Destan, however, well he was _scared_ about that look. He hated not being involved, being in on it, being left out of something that could hurt him. _Kill me, even._

This whole situation had scared Destan, if he was honest. He was doing his absolute best to wear the right mask to fit in with these Careers but it was taxing. He hadn't expected them to be so … jolly. Britta, Neviya and Linnea were eternal sunshine which made absolutely no sense for where they were. Destan had resigned himself to what he'd have to do to the rest of these tributes but he wasn't so sure they had any idea that they'd be killing in a few days.

Chancellor, though. He'd probably killed the midwife on his way out at birth.

Destan had left Roarke to watch over Chancellor. Not only was the sly little conversation the girls were having in the shadows unnerving Destan, but that _demon_ sure did. Destan knew he had to kill but he wasn't about to enjoy it. Chancellor could, as the girls said, and probably would, slaughter all his allies without so much as batting an eyelid.

 _I have a choice, now. An important one._

He quickly returned to Chancellor's side. Roarke was further away practicing on his own little dummy, listening to the trainer with a confident smile. Destan picked up a throwing star and watched Chancellor leer at his target as it sunk into its chest.

"Perfect," he mumbled.

"You're quite good at that," Destan said.

Chancellor's head snapped round and when he caught sight of Destan, he shrugged his shoulders. "Years and years of practice. This is where I'm meant to be."

The giddy psycho spoke like he'd got all his lines from Child Killer 101 but he didn't seem to mind Destan as much as the others. Around the girls and Roarke, he smiled and laughed and did all he could to appear so content in their peace and love ritual. Around Chancellor, that would not fly. He was probably the only person in their alliance that he actually spoke to without that guttural growl lacing each word.

He let Chancellor get on with his training in silence, something which the boy from One no doubt actually enjoyed about Destan. The girls were unbearably loud but they were scheming and for that he gave them credit.

 _I can have my own little schemes though._ He could be _better_ than any of them.

His options were to either go along with what the girls were doing and kill who was definitely their biggest competition straight away. Or – he could do something that he'd seen happen on television a few times with varying results.

Chancellor didn't mind Destan, that was a fact. He didn't like Destan, but he could put up with him. Another fact – _I'm shit scared of him._ He hated to admit it but that was true. He was less scared of a trio of bitchy teenage girls than this truly dark character.

Maybe he could kill Chancellor in the bloodbath. Or maybe he could use Chancellor to kill the girls and weaken out the pack. Chancellor wasn't cunning enough to play to a plan where he acted the part and then backstabbed the girls.

 _If I do this, I'm committed._

Destan flipped a mental coin in his head and threw the star in the air, slicing open the target's throat.

 _Let's shake things up._

"We have a problem," Destan said.

Chancellor at first didn't register what Destan had said and threw his weapon, again impeccable aim. _Listen to me, goddammit!_ He watched Chancellor slowly twist his head to face Destan, a frown on his face. "The only problem is you interrupting me."

"Listen, okay," Destan stepped closer to Chancellor but kept enough distance to be respectful. "The girls see you for the threat you are. I heard them, over there." He pointed in their general direction and watched as Chancellor's gaze moved over towards where they stood. "They want to place all nicey-nice with you until the bloodbath and then it's goodbye Chancellor – you're dead."

"As if," Chancellor snorted.

Destan shook his head. "Chancellor." _Ugh, just say it Destan…_ "You're the best of us. They see it as a quick way of ensuring that you're dealt with and you are none the wiser. I thought it best to warn you. I don't want to see you dying."

 _I do. You all have to. I want to live more than anything._

Chancellor gritted his teeth even further, grinding them together. His fingers clenched tightly around the throwing star in his hand and he bridged the gap between Destan, fingers closing round the neck of his training uniform, bringing him up closer.

"Are you sure?" Chancellor growled. "If this is some kind of stupid game to get me to-"

Destan shook his head. Sweat began to creep down his forehead. "No game. They want to kill you, Chancellor. I'm telling you the truth."

An evil look swept through Chancellor's eyes and he let Destan go. For a moment, Destan regretted what he'd done. Everything was now going to change. But when Chancellor looked at him, eyebrows knitted together in sheer rage, he knew he'd made the right decision.

This was a boy he wanted as an ally. Destan would prefer he didn't dirty his hands in a hand-to-hand fight and here was the perfect candidate. Someone that if he played his cards right, may even fight _for_ Destan. Not the whole time, Destan knew. There would come a time where Chancellor would easily try to kill him. For now, though, better Chancellor than the girls.

 _Let them die instead._

"I'm going to kill them."

Destan blinked at Chancellor.

 _Oh shit._

"Don't, don't, don't-" Destan stepped in front of Chancellor who took a step forwards. "Chancellor. Don't. Be smarter than that. Be smarter than them."

"They want to kill me? I'll kill them first."

Destan shook his head. "Do you really think the Capitol is just going to let you butcher them here? Do it later. They're shallow, stupid girls that think of nothing but their hair, nails and who they're fucking. They'll be easy to kill. We can do it together."

Chancellor looked at Destan.

 _God, I sound pathetic._

But it was necessary. He didn't actually dislike Britta, or Neviya, or Linnea. He didn't want to die, though. It was as simple as that. So the girls would have to. And eventually, so would Chancellor.

"What about him?"

Destan looked to where Chancellor now pointed, towards an unsuspecting Roarke who was now swinging his arms back and forth, whistling to himself as he moved closer and closer to the two of them.

"I know what he looks like. But he's trained as well. We need him, Chancellor. If only to help us in the fight to come."

Chancellor paused to think and wasted no time in nodding his head. "Fine."

Destan smiled as Chancellor went back to throwing his stars.

He looked over to where the girls were stood and caught Britta's eye. Something was said between them because Linnea and Neviya followed suit, watching Destan as he gazed over at all three girls.

With a grin, Destan couldn't help himself. His hand raised in the air and he waved ever so slowly.

It was hard to tell but whatever they'd been laughing at mindlessly, it stopped immediately.

Britta, Linnea and Neviya across the room, staring at Destan who had just ruined _everything._

For them.

 _For me – I have a pet psychopath._

Let the Careers fall apart.

This was more fun anyway.

* * *

 **Armina Rione, 15 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

She couldn't help but feel jealous.

At lunch, Armina had sat in the far-right corner, eating sullenly and watching Castor and his new friend. It felt strange – she'd encouraged it, but the fact that he'd got there first left her feeling doubtful of the steps she'd taken to help him there. Castor was quite a character; loud and friendly and cheerful and didn't seem to have much thought behind his actions.

Armina had tried to ground herself, and in the process, ground him to their reality. She just hated it – not having someone around her to talk to. Not that she'd ever really integrated well with other kids her age because most of the time they annoyed her, but it didn't stop Armina from doing it anyway.

She'd have easily tried her best to be good friends with Castor. But this was the Games, and in the Games, Armina knew she couldn't ally with the easiest option. She had to think carefully about it. Jumping to a conclusion within seconds was Castor's thing. _Not mine._

Armina focused in on where she was. Castor wasn't her ally, so she had to forget about him. He was a little slice of home that she cherished having around, but that was all he was – all he could be. She looked at the tall woman in front of her, looming high above Armina's shorter stature.

"Ready?" The woman asked.

Armina's stomach flipped nervously but she gritted her teeth together and nodded. "Ready."

She pushed with all her might and tried her best to bring her foot around and sweep it under the lady. Armina had never had to fight for anything her entire life, let alone actually use her fists and feet to survive. It felt strange and she'd spent the past half hour watching the woman show her different techniques for hand-to-hand combat, but none of it was sinking in. She found herself growing more and more frustrated that she couldn't pick this up.

There was only so much Armina could control and this wasn't one of them. _How can I possibly learn this skill in three days?!_ The situation felt hopeless but she refused to give up. Her leg missed the woman as she jumped backwards, bringing her hand up to strike Armina and grab her by the shoulders. In two seconds flat, Armina was swept upwards, gravity went against her, and she was flipped over her shoulder and winded as she hit the mat.

 _Fuck._

Armina groaned and rolled to her side, taking a second to catch her breath. She couldn't help but feel anger flicker through her body. The lack of control over her own physical prowess felt humiliating.

"Why go so far?" Armina said, panting. "Maybe the Careers know what they're doing but no way is – say – the boy from Nine going to be able to do that. Bring it down to their level so I know what I'll be fighting against."

The trainer shook her head, tutting. "Better to prepare against a stronger opponent than to be completely overwhelmed. Again?"

 _I really should._

Armina couldn't, though. "Maybe later."

Before the woman could reply to Armina, she walked away, crossing her arms. Her chest felt painful anyway from when the sick boy from One had pushed her simply to get to the archery station. She hated him – hated all of the Careers, really. She knew she was jealous that they actually stood a chance here and she wished she could rise to their level. But three days simply was not _enough._

It made her want to cry.

 _Don't._ Maybe the chances were against her but Armina had always tried to be hopeful. _If Castor can find someone, you can. Look around. Think carefully._

Sinta, Bryce and Teak had an alliance. Armina immediately vetoed that idea as she caught them laughing at the edible plants station. Apart from them, the Careers who seemed to be in two groups at the moment, and Castor, there didn't seem to be anyone in an alliance as of yet.

 _Someone like me…_ Armina thought. It would be easier with someone that was competent, not too much to handle, but also someone that Armina wouldn't grow close to. This wasn't the place to make friends.

She spotted a lone figure fixing some rope together, tying a knot and setting it under a bed of leaves. _Interesting._ Armina strode over to the girl and sat next to her, with enough distance so as not to impose, and peered at the girl cautiously.

Albie Mathison – District Three. Clearly smart, clearly the sort of competence Armina wanted, and clearly detached enough to be quite content on her lonesome. Armina respected that.

"Hi," Armina said.

The girl whipped her head around, clearly deep in thought and surprised at an intrusion. Her face relaxed slightly, a small polite smile on her face. "Hello, I'm Albie."

"Armina."

"Can I help you?" Albie asked. "If you want to use this station I can give you some of my materials. Not many people seem very interested in setting snares, but I for one think it's important. What if we need to catch some food?"

It was interesting that she said _we._ Armina knew she meant the tributes in general but she liked the sound of Albie already. Plus, she was completely correct. This was something that was important to know. Knowledge that was useful.

Armina pointed at the bits of rope and smiled. "Do you think you could show me how? We don't really know things like this back in Eight. I spent most of my time caring more about how many friends I had at school."

"Oh. Really?" Albie looked at Armina. "That sounds nice."

"Strange to think that it was all for nothing really. Now I'm in a room full of strangers and we have three days to teach ourselves _something_ about how to survive. Call me negative, but I'm a bit worried."

Albie chuckled and passed the small book she had in her lap to Armina, pointing at a page that had been marked in the corner. "That one is best for catching small animals such as rabbits or squirrels. Obviously, I've never had to do that before but it's quite interesting if you read about it. Useful too."

"Hm." Armina found it a bit grim looking at a picture of a rabbit and then detailed information on how to slice it open, but for the sake of where she was and her own chances, she didn't want to offend Albie and simply nodded, flicking the page over to read further. "And you've read all this?"

"I like books, I suppose. Information can be important. My mother used to tell me it's who you know. I think it's more about what you know."

 _I like her.  
_ Armina could have waited to make sure she completely and totally felt that Albie was the right choice, she wanted to calculate every decision and look at things properly, but something really did seem _correct_ about Albie. That she was the way to go.

"Do you think – maybe – you'd like to be allies?" Armina said. "Just for a bit, anyway. Another pair of eyes in the Arena, I suppose."

Albie didn't seem to hesitate in giving her answer. For a girl that seemed quietly analytical, Armina was surprised when she burst out saying, "Yes, definitely Armina. I think that would be nice."

There was a muted sort of spirit to Albie underneath those layers of refinement. She didn't say much that didn't seem like she'd already scripted it in her head, but Armina could tell this was a girl that wanted to survive. A girl that would fight.

Armina needed that. Plus, she just missed the company of other humans.

"Let's shake on it then," Armina said, extending her hand.

Albie shook it and smiled. "I'm glad you joined me, Armina."

"I'm glad I did too."

* * *

 **Altia Wright, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Female.**

* * *

She'd spent the whole day with a shadow.

It wasn't the type of shadow that was silent, either. It was the type of shadow that was digging its irritating voice into her skin, its presence twisting her stomach with embarrassing anger, its sweet little smile sending her mind into a spiral of confliction.

The shadow was called Damon. And it would not leave her alone.

She'd gone from weaponry station to a climbing net to a scaling wall and Damon had just tagged along uninvited because he apparently wanted to _know_ her. Altia would have given anyone else the chance to break down her walls because her guard was so shaky in its foundation and there were so many people on her side of Twelve that she'd seen with personalities like Damon. People she'd helped. People that drove her on despite all the darkness.

But Damon was a reminder of that very same darkness and she could not shake it. _Am I supposed to just forget a childhood of pain in the space of two days?_ An endearing smile couldn't shake the conviction she felt in her stomach that as long as Damon was around, she had a reminder of her pain, when being in the Capitol a thousand miles from home should be the twisted reprieve that perhaps she'd longed for.

The whole thing was a shit-show.

"Nice throw," Damon commented as Altia practiced with a spear. It hit the shoulder of a target and vibrated from where it stood embedded in the wood. "I bet you're going to get a high score. It's pretty impressive that you've never used one of those before and…"

 _Please._ She'd tried telling him – she'd tried ignoring him – she'd tried everything she could think of yet nothing would work. It made Altia feel guilty, more than anything. Because Damon was not his father. But she could not forget that. _How can I?_

She didn't let him finish his wave of compliments as she moved quickly on to the next weaponry station she could find. It was close-combat with swords, the trainer happy to show her the proper stance and technique with Damon picking up a sword himself and slashing at a dummy. He looked completely out of his comfort zone and kept glancing down at the sword unsure of himself, before dropping it with a clang and shrugging his shoulders.

"Feels weird, really. I'm seventeen and I have to hold a sword?"

 _Daddy holds a gun. I've seen him use it. I've seen him smile as brains splattered the cobbled streets._

It was nearing the end of the day. She had seen some alliances begin to piece together and the Careers having some kind of turmoil which truthfully made her feel a little at ease. They were the biggest threats and part of her felt uneased by the thought, but they might kill her, _so let them kill each other._

Damon tagged along as she let the sword leave her hands, thanked the instructor and moved towards the fire-starting station. It was amongst trees and bushes with undergrowth that teemed with berries and other woodland features. Altia had seen the forests peeking above the fences of Twelve and something seemed familiar.

This though - it was all fake. The tallest tree brushed the ceiling and in the background she could hear the _clang_ of weapons being used. She appreciated it all the same however and for a second managed to ignore the footsteps of her shadow.

Until he spoke again, this time stepping to her side. "Are you going to be like this all day?" Damon now sounded sad and again that twinge of guilt erupted inside of Altia. "Fynn said I should find allies but I don't understand why we can't just join up. You seem strong and principled, Altia. I like that about you."

She closed her eyes and then turned to face him, opening them and this time _hoping_ he would finally get it. "I am not the only tribute here. I am _not_ going to say yes, Damon. And you are honestly losing time if you spend it with me. All the tributes will find allies and it'll be too late for you. For your sake, please leave me alone."

"But-"

Another voice interrupted their conversation and part of Altia couldn't help but be grateful for it. "I think she doesn't want you around. Might just be me having a wild guess. Could be wrong. But I'm getting a vibe."

Altia and Damon looked at the boy from Six, Celestin, move from the shadows of a fake tree and look at the pair from Twelve. "It's sort of funny, if I'm honest. But I do think you should probably go."

"Why do you care?" Altia asked because she couldn't help but wonder why a stranger was now interfering.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't. Not really." He seemed confused all of a sudden, as if unsure of why he'd said anything in the first place. He shook his head and smiled. "I just thought I'd throw in my opinion, anyway. If you want him around, by all means ignore me."

Damon looked between Altia and Celestin and bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Altia. For what I'm doing." He began to move away, _finally_ getting it, and stopped for one more second. "And for what my Father did."

 _Fuck._ She watched him head back towards the swords and feebly wield one, slashing away at the air around him. Altia knew the difference between right and wrong and what the perpetrators of the evil in this world appeared like, and what a kind smile could achieve. Altia had stepped in to help others even when it conflicted with everything that was going on with her.

None of it made sense.

"Sooooo…"

Altia looked at the boy from Six and couldn't help but smile. "Thank you," she said. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

There was a three-second delay between Altia walking off and the boy making some kind of decision, before she felt a hand on her shoulder and twisted around. "Please don't."

"Sorry," Celestin said, pulling his hand back quickly. "I just – you see that little kid over there, the short one, slightly wonky nose? Looks a bit like she'd give you a speech on how the rich are actually the truly oppressed community?"

He was pointing to a little girl in the distance and she nodded.

"That's Maisley my district partner. She's annoyed me all day telling me to get out there and find someone to ally with. And quite honestly, I've never really … cared enough to want to talk to people. Which is why it shocked me I even said anything back then. All I'm saying is-"

Altia nodded her head. "I don't know what it looked like, me ignoring Damon, and I feel cruel, but he reminds me of something I _need_ to be free of now that I'm here. But I don't want to be alone. So you can train with me, if you like? And we can see where it goes?"

Celestin's mouth set into a line and his hands clasped together. "I think that's what I was trying to get at?" He bit his bottom lip. "This is all new to me. But I don't want to die, if I'm honest. So maybe not wanting to die is enough to _try_ a little at becoming better."

"Let's try together then."

Altia led Celestin to the small area where they could practice starting a fire. They didn't say much. Celestin wasn't the type and quite frankly neither was Altia. There was something there, though. Something that made Altia feel grounded now. Focused.

 _I hope Damon finds someone._ She meant it.

But that person couldn't be her.

A weight was now off her shoulders, and perhaps now she could focus on training, focus on learning, and now focus on her new ally.

 _Focus on living._

* * *

 **Um. So I was gonna wait? Please don't hate me. Good news I'm in school tomorrow looking after like 6 kids SO no writing for me tomorrow. Which means update will be a bit longer? Probably? I honestly don't know anymore. I decided the BBs today for this story and I can't wait to get to the Games so... yeah... sue me?**

 **Let's shoot with another question!**

 _ **What would be your Games strategy if you were a tribute?**_

 **So I won't say anything final about what's going on with the Careers because whilst a lot developed this chapter, we still need to hear from Roarke! New confirmed alliances are… Albie + Armina and Celestin + Altia.**

 **That's it for the first day of training. One more chapter to showcase the last four tributes –** _ **Roarke, Albie, Iva**_ **and** _ **Ponche –**_ **then we will start up again with the next round of POVs. As I said they all get three POVs before the Games (they've now nearly all had two) so that means we're almost at the halfway point of the Capitol.**


	20. On Fire

**Chapter Twenty.**

* * *

 **Training Day Two, Part One.**

* * *

 **Roarke Lumally, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

For the first time in a long time, Roarke did not want to leave his bedroom.

Usually, especially back in Two, he was the first one up, pulling back the curtains and revelling in whatever the day would bring. Inject a little light into the world and it had a habit of returning the favour.

The train ride to the Capitol, the Chariot Rides, the first day of training – Roarke had embraced every wisp of happiness and joyous conversation he could have with his allies, especially Neviya. She was just as buoyant and vibrant as he was. Much more grounded in what she had to do, but Roarke knew that with an ally – no, a friend – like that, he could use her intelligence for his own sake.

 _But now it's all changed._

"Roarke?"

There was a light tap on the door and Roarke could hear Neviya's delicate voice through the wood. He was dressed head to toe in his training gear ready for day two. But he did not want to leave. He couldn't face it. His eyes were shot with tiredness, his stomach curdling with nerves, his mind a web of confusion and … _fear_. He didn't do well under pressure, never had done, never been able to face hard decisions and meet them with tact and rationality.

Neviya had been that foundation so far. Now he had to make a decision. A very hard decision.

"You can't hide away forever."

He swallowed the lump in his throat and opened the door, only an inch at first, before he sighed deeply and swung it fully to reveal Neviya ready for the day as well.

"Morning," she said. "We have to go."

"I know," Roarke replied. "I know."

What he liked about Neviya was the fact she hadn't jumped on him instantly after the complete upheaval of events at the end of yesterday's training session. Destan and Chancellor had discussed with him what had happened and he'd spent the evening listening to Neviya and his mentors debate about what Roarke _should_ do. No one had asked him what he wanted to do because even Roarke didn't know the answer to that.

Everything had changed. Roarke despised it.

Tilda and Valerian, Two's mentors, were nowhere to be seen as he entered their dining area. Neviya handed him a glass of water and smiled over the rim of her own drink as he swallowed it down in one gulp. She was waiting for him to say something. He'd always wanted a friend like her in his life. It was a pity that after everything he'd been through, it was the Hunger Games that had shown him to someone that had made him feel so worthy of something.

She had to die. He knew that. They all knew that. Roarke had just tried to ignore it. Push it down and bury it underneath smiles and jovial chit-chat. But the time for that had ended. All because of Chancellor and Destan who Roarke had no idea could be capable of something like _this._

"Please don't ask me," Roarke said as Neviya continued to stare at him.

She sighed and shook her head, her gentle ginger curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Roarke – it's time. I – _we_ – have to know."

He wanted to cry, really. The fear was palpable inside of Roarke. He could masquerade the fact that he always felt like such a coward under layers upon layers of this confidence. Today he felt naked. Stripped of it all.

"I don't know, Neviya. I don't know. Why can't we just – just forget it's all happened?"

"Because Chancellor is too big a risk of an alliance we believe actually had potential. You watch the Games every year, right?"

Roarke nodded.

"And you've seen how mind-numbingly stupid tributes from Two can sometimes be? That a sword will get you to wherever you want? They believe that betrayal is an easy thing. It's like Linnea said – there are _six_ of us. Eighteen of the rest. It's not a guarantee we will win," she paused, looking at Roarke who could barely meet her eye. "Chancellor could tear that strong foundation apart. We thought it best to get rid of him – as callous as it may be, it was for the good of all of us. Destan has ruined that. We – Linnea, myself and Britta – are sticking to our guns. The ball is now in your court."

Roarke looked at the clock and once again sighed. The weight of this decision felt heavy – impossible to carry. "We should go."

Neviya followed a deflated Roarke to the elevator. When they entered, he turned to her and smiled sadly. "You, Britta and Linnea, but especially you Neviya, are _capable_. You've said it yourself we can't really call each other friends but in another time, maybe we could have been." He pictured the boy from One throwing knives and shooting arrows with perfect timing and aim and felt a shiver down his spine. "Chancellor is a killer. I don't want him as my enemy so early on. He's gunning for you three. He will try to kill you at the beginning of the Games."

Neviya nodded. She seemed resolute. Despite staring at Roarke with pity and longing, Roarke admired her for her commitment to her decision. He wished he could feel that way. "And he will die."

"You can't be sure of that," Roarke said as the elevator dinged to mark their descension into the Training Hall. "He's the strongest of us all."

"Apart, maybe not. Together, we can."

They walked out and already they could see that Linnea and Chancellor were here. Linnea waved at Neviya half-heartedly, pointing at Chancellor who was already busy fighting a trainer with his bare hands. Roarke watched with a tremble in his lip. This was not a boy he didn't want targeting him.

"I'll think about it," Roarke said, glumly staring at Neviya and feeling as if their connection was being cut apart already. The reality of the Games was beginning to weigh heavy on Roarke. No longer could he pretend otherwise. "I'll see you later."

He waved at Linnea and tried to smile but it was a feeble attempt. Before long, Destan and Britta arrived and he made a beeline straight for Roarke, putting his arm around him and pulling him towards Chancellor. Roarke didn't fight it. He watched the boy pretty much pulverise the trainer into the ground save for actually drawing blood and he whipped around, grinning at Destan and Roarke.

Destan – the catalyst of this split, beamed at him. Roarke just looked away, over his shoulder, at the three girls who were watching him.

"Made up your mind?" Chancellor said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"It's them or us. I think it's a pretty easy decision," Destan said with confidence in himself.

He was right, really. Roarke looked over at Neviya who met his gaze and his eyes fell. His friendship with her had been an anchor so far. A way to actually forget that Roarke, despite being a volunteer, was _scared_. Scared of killing, scared of falling apart, scared of making tough choices, and scared of the boy in front of him.

There seemed only one smart decision and that decision went against every positive bone in his body that longed for someone like Neviya to be around. But maybe, with the Games nearing, he had to start thinking in a different sort of way.

"I'm in," Roarke said, quietly.

 _I don't want to die._

Chancellor was the biggest threat. As an ally, at least he had enough time to think of the next step in his strategy. As an enemy, he would be a target within seconds. Maybe four against two would have been a boon in the bloodbath, but maybe not. Roarke didn't like his chances against Chancellor and it was too big a risk to take.

"Excellent," Destan said, clapping him on the back.

All he could see as his two allies returned to training was the stare that Neviya gave him, the curt nod, and then the fact she turned her back on him and walked away with the girls.

 _What have I done?_

It was too late. He'd made his choice.

He just hoped it was the right one.

* * *

 **Albie Mathison, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

Albie was hoping she'd made the right decision.

There wasn't anything remarkable about Armina but a good, strong head on your shoulders could go an awfully long way. Plus, she seemed kind. Albie wasn't used to being around that.

"So you're telling me that if I attach this wire to this, I'll get-"

Armina's voice was cut off by a small spark that erupted from the metal poking out from the wires in her hand. She gasped and smiled at Albie.

"I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you're pretty smart."

Albie had heard it a lot, back in Three, but not in the nice sort of way Armina said it. Usually it was – _you're smart, but could be smarter._ Albie was learning to let loose in the Capitol. Only a little bit. It felt nice to be able to breathe finally.

"Say what you want about tributes from Three, but we know our stuff."

"Is that common for you lot?" Armina questioned, placing the wires down. "Like – I don't want to just assume anything about where you come from."

There were times when Albie found it difficult being faced with the questions that Armina liked to ask her. Ever since meeting her, Armina had just wanted to get to know Albie, and whilst Albie knew that was important in an ally, that sort of in-depth connection felt strange. Foreign, almost. She was doing her best to strip it all back a little and just be in the moment with Armina. The girl was smart and she respected that. She needed that if she wanted a chance in winning.

"I suppose if you keep your head down and work hard, anyone can be smart," Albie said. "I did my very best back at home to be – well to be the perfect girl in Three. Sometimes it got a bit boring, if I'm honest."

Armina laughed. "How does it feel to say that?"

"What do you mean?" Albie asked, confused.

"You don't strike me as the sort of person who finds it easy to confess that being smart isn't everything."

 _Good point._ Albie had been told to believe it was everything so it was difficult to believe otherwise. Even now, looking at Armina who was another girl, younger than Albie with a bit of a shallowness to her, but a lovely smile, Albie couldn't help but see her in terms of what she could do for Albie in the Games. It was a horrid way of looking at a human being but she couldn't get past where they were.

 _That she has to die._

Albie shrugged and stepped back from the workbench. "Maybe there's more to being a person from where I come from than what's between the ears."

"I was told that being pretty helps."

Albie laughed. "You are pretty, Armina. If that's what you were looking for."

"I don't need to fish for compliments, Albie," Armina giggled. "But thank you. In this horrid place, being pretty seems to be all they care about."

"Until we have to kill," Albie mused, her voice lowering. "Then it's about how easy we can deal with that."

The way Armina's face went still and the smile dropped told Albie two things. Armina wasn't able to put herself in that frame of mind, something that Albie knew made sense but could be a hindrance, and that she was actually, underneath a layer of superficiality, a _good_ person. Albie hadn't decided if that was something she valued in an ally in the Hunger Games.

As the girls moved away from the station they were at, a loud bang echoed around the room followed by a voice that reached a volume harsher than anything else around them. Albie paid it no mind, preferring to ignore silly distraction, but the swear word that followed belonged to a voice she'd tried to block out from the beginning. It was frustrating how impossible that was.

"Don't you fucking touch me!"

She heard it again and this time couldn't ignore it. She turned on the spot and saw Armina point to where Nikos was stood, huffing and puffing in the face of the girl from Ten – Carys something – holding a knife in his hand.

"Put it down fuckface," Carys spat. "Before you do something stupid."

"Is that-?" Armina looked at Albie and her mouth formed an 'o.'

 _Don't do anything…_ Albie thought to herself. _Walk away. He's not worth it._

Part of her willed her legs to carry her to another corner of the room. But her mind was ticking, watching the way the trainers gathered nearby, whispering amongst themselves. Capitolites that maybe knew people. Might feed back that someone from Three was problematic. Once again, Albie felt as if Nikos was ruining the important image she was trying to uphold. That he was a burden to have here with her.

"For god's sake," Albie said quietly, marching towards her District partner as he took a step towards Carys.

When he saw Albie get closer, his anger twisted onto her and he pointed the knife outwardly. Albie stopped in her tracks, took a deep breath to hide her annoyance, and gestured to the furious girl from Ten.

"Are you actually trying to kill another tribute before the Games?" Albie did her best to keep her voice level and composed, holding her hands in front of her to stop them shaking. "Do you know what that might mean for your chances? For Three's? For _mine?_ "

"I already had the knife in my hand when this bitch-"

"What the hell did you say?" Carys interjected, stepping forwards.

Albie raised a hand and directed her attention to the feisty younger girl. She noticed Armina trying to hide a grin. Of course the girl relished the drama. Most would. _I don't._

"Think about this logically, Carys." She tried to ignore Nikos' heavy panting and the hole he was burning into the side of her face with his glare. _I'm so used to it by now it's practically nothing._ "Is it worth getting into a fight with a silly neanderthal like Nikos, or do you think it's worth just this once walking away – which I'm sure is hard, don't get me wrong – and saving it for later?"

Two voices overlapped each other and Albie did her best to hear them both.

"Neanderthal?!" Nikos shouted.

"I didn't even do anything," Carys yelled. "I just wanted to have a go myself."

Albie felt a hand on her shoulder and realised Armina was now forgoing watching the drama to actually say something to her ally. "Maybe we should…?" she whispered. Albie nodded and pointed at the knife in Nikos' hand.

"And save that for the Games. Whether you already had it in your hands or not, don't be an idiot. Think before you act."

It wasn't like Albie to not be so contained. She'd never actually directed her anger so outwardly at someone – her voice beginning to rise above its usual composure and stability. But it was hard to be forced into such a situation, with a million and one different ideas on how to survive rushing through her mind, when the only other person from home was someone like Nikos.

She hated being distracted from what was important. This was not. He was not. Carys was not.

Not even Armina, really. No-one was except _Albie._

Carys stormed off and Nikos put the knife down, haphazardly in its position on the rack. He turned to Albie and for once she actually saw him blush a little. Then something went through his mind and his face twisted into one of resolved anger.

"Go back to your stupid little wires, Albie. Weapons aren't for you."

"They aren't for you either," Albie said, turning to walk away. "Don't pretend any of us know what we're really doing because we don't."

With that and a smile from Armina, they left the scene and headed towards the centre of the room, ready to scope out another place to train. Albie felt her heart pounding in her chest and something akin to adrenaline scorching through her body. It felt good. It felt terrifying.

Armina grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Maybe we don't know what we're doing, but we can at least do our best to learn something that will help us."

Albie nodded, trying to ignore everything that was going through her body. "You're right. Let's go."

If Albie was honest with herself, she was scared. Naturally so.

But that didn't mean she could afford such distractions.

She had to play this the right way. Perhaps being the quiet, resilient little figure her mother had wanted would do her some good. Perhaps breaking free, letting loose, and being more spirited like Armina was actually a route towards self-destruction.

Albie didn't know the answer.

And that just frustrated her even more.

* * *

 **Iva Giorgi, 17 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

Iva was starting to enjoy herself.

Not in the sense that she couldn't wait to get to the Games and show off what she was learning, but attempting to have a go at weaponry, piece together shelter and sort through what was edible and what wasn't, made her feel like perhaps she actually had a shot.

It was dumb, really. _There are trained tributes here,_ she thought to herself, _ready to kill._ The little insertion of self-confidence made her feel remarkably at ease for the first time in a long time. In her own little bubble away from the hubbub of Nine and all its noise, she was content to just sit back and do her best with what she already knew and could pick up on.

Spelt had joined her for the first day and sat near her for the time being. _I don't mind him, either._ It surprised Iva, that she had it in her to feel content and patient around someone else. She wasn't against talking to people, but it had always just been her and her mother against the world. She'd never felt the need.

What drew Iva to Spelt was probably what drew Spelt to Iva. They weren't allies. Not even friends. And something about that made it easier than anything else.

"Could you pass me that little bit?" Spelt asked, pointing to a short piece of twine that Iva was fiddling with. "I think it goes here."

Spelt was looking over a book, flicking through pages and smiling as he made little knots and tweaks to whatever it was he was trying to perfect. Iva watched him with fascination as he quietly cheered himself on, not beating himself up when he made a mistake, and persevering through everything they'd faced so far.

"That looks tricky," Iva commented.

He shrugged his shoulders without looking up at her. "Is what it is. Think it may help me catch some food if I make it that far."

"What?" Iva said, shocked. Iva knew exactly where they were and what she had to do, but she hadn't wanted to talk about dying as an actual possibility. Spelt's nonchalance had startled her. "What do you mean not making it far?"

Again, Spelt didn't look at her, but she heard him laugh slightly. "I'm just being realistic, Iva. Don't worry. I'm still going to do my best."

Iva couldn't think like that. The thought of not winning made her feel physically nauseous. It was hard for her mind not to immediately jump to what was most likely going to happen to her but in this Games situation she just couldn't afford to not feel hopeful. It was why she wasn't with Spelt. She liked him. As weird as that felt to inwardly confess, it was the exact reason why they couldn't be together in the Arena.

"There!" He clapped and gestured to what he'd made. "I think I've got it."

"Well done," Iva said with a smile.

Spelt spent another second or so reading through the page he was on and closed the book shut, getting to his feet. He looked down at Iva and she glanced up at him.

"Going somewhere?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Thought maybe I'll go and see what else there is for me to learn. They've got a pool – could maybe try that? I've never swam before."

"Cool," Iva said. "I'll see you later then."

"Bye!"

He ran off leaving Iva alone. She didn't mind. They weren't tethered together – another reason why she liked Spelt. It didn't feel like she had to adhere to whatever he felt was the right path in the build up to the Games. It was surprisingly peaceful.

Five or so minutes passed with Iva minding her own business, attempting the snare that Spelt had made with little satisfaction, until Iva heard footsteps behind her. She didn't feel like checking who it was and part of her was silently hoping they'd move on.

When they didn't and sat down right next to her, she continued to try to avert making eye contact. Growing up the way she had, she was remarkably talented at making people leave her alone.

Although this time it didn't seem to be working.

"Whatcha making?"

It was a male voice. Light, a bit too peppy for Iva's liking. This time she couldn't pretend as if he weren't there, and not one to be obviously rude, Iva turned to acknowledge him. It was Damon, District Twelve, with a broad grin on his face.

"It'll help me catch food," Iva said, turning back to continue her work.

 _Leave, please._ She silently reprimanded herself for being so rude, especially when he was well within his right to train here, but his smile was a bit unnerving. It wasn't that she didn't smile. Or that Spelt didn't. But she could feel his eyes burning into the back of her neck. Unrelenting.

"Can I help you?" she found herself asking, a twinge of harshness to her tone.

"Oh, it's nothing, thought maybe you needed a hand." Damon sidled in closer to her, sitting down and picking up a twig, snapping it in two. "I'm quite the expert at … wood … piling … stuff …"

Iva couldn't help but laugh. "You spent most of your time back home catching small mammals to eat. Living it up rough, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Damon said. "All the time."

"Something tells me you're full of it," Iva said, taking the bit of rope that Damon had proceeded to pick up from his hands and placing it back down in front of her. "Is there actually anything I can do for you? I'm happy for you to train here, but you're sort of ruining what I'm doing."

"Oh…" Damon's smile fell and he slid sideways ever so slightly, face crumpling. "I didn't mean to – I – I can't seem to get the hang of this thing –"

Iva knew she shouldn't really engage. The best way of getting rid of someone like Damon was to pretend they weren't around. But that wasn't in Iva's nature. She wished she could pretend otherwise, but she just couldn't.

"What can't you get the hang of?"

Damon sighed. "I'm scared, Eve. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"It's Iva."

He continued. "My District partner hates my guts and to be honest I don't blame her. But I don't want to go in the Arena alone." He looked at her. "Do you know what I mean, Eve?"

"It's Iva," she repeated.

"Oh, sorry," he laughed. "Iva. District Nine?"

She nodded.

Iva felt something akin to understanding. She didn't want Spelt with her in the Games not because she was one-hundred percent against allies, but because the connection there, a connection created simply because they came from the same place, meant that seeing him go would be too much. If something became too much, Iva was scared she'd crumble. And if she wanted to win, that could _not_ happen.

That didn't mean she wanted to be alone, though. Being alone had always made more sense to Iva back home. Being alone here, as easier as it might be short-term, could perhaps mean death if the wrong situation presented itself.

An ally could go a long way. _Temporarily._

"Honestly, I really have no idea about any of this. I look around and people are picking things up – slowly, mind. Most of you guys don't seem to be able to do much but it's a damn right more than I can," Damon pointed at a book in front of him. "I don't even know what that word says. I just feel really out of my depth."

Iva didn't want to feel sorry for him but she did. It wasn't so much that he was trying to make her pity him; it was just the harsh truth of how they all felt. Damon was simply more honest about it. A bit like Spelt earlier. It just wasn't the mindset she could have for herself.

"You need to change that way of thinking if you want a shot," Iva said. "Maybe you don't know much about how to survive and kill and fight but at least try to pretend you do. Go into this defeated and you're dead, Damon. Simple as."

He winced. "I don't want to die."

"Me neither."

There was a pause and Damon's face started to brighten up once more with a smile. He turned to Iva and pointed at the book again.

"Could I maybe stay here with you? You could tell me what that word means as a start and then maybe I could learn from you. And then I could practice at actually trying to be good at something, rather than just moping about the place."

Iva paled. "I-"

"I won't push it. I pushed it with Altia my District partner and I don't want to do that again. If you say no, I'll walk away. No pressure."

Looking at his smile, Iva felt something. She wasn't sure what it really was. Damon seemed useless. He believed he was useless. He was not the sort of ally that would help Iva in the Arena in any sort of fight. But having him perhaps wasn't the worst decision she could make.

It meant she didn't have to be alone in a place that was designed to rip her apart.

"We need someone else," Iva said. "It can't just be us two."

They had to have someone with some kind of skill. Something to bring to the table. Damon seemed to shake with excitement at Iva's acceptance and for a second she thought maybe she'd made the wrong decision, but when he gave her a quick hug, thanking her and passing the book into her hands, she felt a twinge of happiness.

People were tricky, difficult beings. But people could also be good and true.

Maybe it would do her some good in the Arena to try to remember that.

For however long it could last.

* * *

 **Ponche Garland, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

"Try that." Castor moved Ponche's fingers round the handle of the sword and smiled at him. "Better?"

 _Not at all,_ Ponche thought. _Because I'm holding a sword._

It felt very strange to be learning how to kill other people. Not just people, but other teenagers. Being seventeen it put him on the older end of the spectrum – there were some that were younger than him. All here to do one thing: outlive the rest.

It was the worst place he'd ever been.

"I think so," Ponche said to Castor, waving the sword slowly in front of him. "How do you know so much?"

If there was one thing to come out of this, however, it was Castor. Ponche had been surprised he'd even said yes to the offer of an alliance. This entire situation felt like something he wanted to do alone because he was afraid of letting absolutely anybody in. Sheridan had her own walls up as well, something which Ponche completely understood.

Castor had begun to bring him out of his shell just a little and he appreciated it. He was also scared of it.

"I don't really. Not with weapons. But I guess all you gotta do is find the right one for you and things start to click."

Castor picked up his own weapon and turned to face Ponche. He gulped at the sight of his ally pointing a sword at him but Castor always had that smile on his face, an air of nonchalance paired with a genuine fondness that made Ponche feel strange that someone like him had welcomed a boy that preferred relative loneliness.

Ponche looked at the trainer who offered a warm thumbs-up. "You got this," she said. "Just try not to overthink it."

Ponche gritted his teeth together and swung his sword at Castor. His ally brought his up and a vibration rattled down the length of Ponche's weapon and into his shoulder, juddering his teeth. Whilst he stood there with sweat on his brow, hating this weapon in his hands, Castor seemed to be enjoying himself, bringing his round to bounce off Ponche's and on and on it went.

Ponche knew this was all necessary for his own survival. Breaking out of his comfort zone. Allowing himself to be seen. Believing that someone actually wanted him around. _That I have a chance._ It all felt so odd, though. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the trainer more fixated on Castor, a smile on her lips, and Ponche's heart was in his throat.

 _He's better than me. He has a shot._

Part of Ponche was scared at that, but part of Ponche was grateful he had him on his side. This whole thing was confusing.

Their swords met once more, a metallic ringing reverberating out into the room, and Castor made a 't' with his hands. He was panting through a wide grin. "You're getting better, pinky promise."

"Doesn't feel like it," Ponche said. "But thanks," he quickly added. "You're a big help."

As Castor took Ponche's sword from his hands and placed them on the rack, Ponche heard something behind him. It was a whistle of wood against the wind followed by a loud shriek from somewhere in the distance.

"Watch out!"

Ponche's stomach somersaulted and he immediately was plunged into _what the hell do I do?_ He turned on the spot and saw an arrow careen off the wall and spiral to his feet. It was nowhere near to hitting him but still, he felt his heart pumping, fear shaking his arms and legs, and Ponche wanted to be sick.

 _I'm useless. Utterly useless._

He felt Castor's firm hand clap him on the back as he laughed joyously. "Don't be so jumpy, mate. It's all good."

The two boys watched a little girl hurry after her arrow, huffing and puffing, cheeks bright red. She picked up the arrow and awkwardly stared at the two of them. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know my aim was _that_ bad."

Ponche looked at the targets where the archery station was. They pointed the complete opposite way. _She'd literally have to be facing the wrong way to be able to do that…_ Castor didn't seem to register though, or piece it together, because he laughed again and gestured to the bow in her hands.

"District Six not teach you how to shoot?"

She smiled. "How do you know I'm from Six?"

"The giant Six on your arm gives it away," he said. "Plus it's been long enough now for me to memorise everyone in this room. I like to know the names attached to all the faces I'm seeing."

Ponche watched the girl giggle again and her name flashed before his eyes. _Maisley Corvac._ Her reaping had stood out only because the man he presumed was her father leapt from the Mayor's chair and decked the escort in the face. It was amusing but this situation didn't make Ponche smile the same way that Castor was.

Her eyes had barely registered Ponche, her attention solely on Castor, and something about that made Ponche dislike the girl. Not because he cared all that much about the attention others gave him, but because … _well that arrow should not have come this way?!_

"I think it's quite smart to know your competition," Maisley said, her sprightly attitude on par with Castor's. "I suppose my brain is going to have to help me a lot more in the Games than my skill with a bow."

"Keep practicing. Ponche here can now use a sword. He couldn't yesterday."

Maisley now looked at Ponche, finally, and smiled at him. "That's excellent. You couldn't show me, could you? I suppose you saw my Reaping – I … well coming from where I come from, my Father was more inclined to teach me how to speak properly, not how to do anything useful."

"You think we swung swords for a living just because we weren't living it up fancy?" Ponche said, snapping in a way that surprised even him.

Castor looked at him shocked. Maisley just smiled. "I didn't mean it that way. There is something I could offer, something I think that maybe, and I don't mean this to be harsh, you _don't_ have. All I ask is some help with these stations. I'm kidding no one. I'm the youngest here – that puts me at a disadvantage already."

Ponche wanted to say _no._ Castor beat him to the punch. Only his answer was the complete opposite to what Ponche wanted to say.

"How about we do you one better. Join us permanently? We could always use a third pair of eyes, right Ponche?"

The two looked at Ponche and he just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't want Maisley, but he didn't want to let Castor down. He'd only just started to find his place here, he didn't want to have that taken from him.

"I suppose so," Ponche said.

"So what can you offer us, apart from your fantastic archery skill?"

Maisley was quick to answer. _Almost too quick._ Ponche didn't trust her but her youthful energy seemed genuine. It made Ponche feel uneasy at how quick he was to grow suspicious. He couldn't get that arrow out of his mind, though.

"My Father is the Mayor of Six. He comes from a place of money and from that he knows people in the Capitol. One thing he told me before I left," Maisley said, smiling at the two of them, "was that _you and any friends you make will not have to fight for scraps in that Arena, you'll be well looked after._ It was hard to really process what he was saying at the time, but now I think about it, it means that despite my age, despite coming from Six and not being a favourite, he has money that can be used for me and anyone that I have with me in the Arena. It could help us."

Castor was sold immediately.

Ponche – not so much.

It seemed too perfect, too rehearsed, too much like she would say anything to join them. She was the youngest here, probably the most overlooked, and someone that no one would bet on at all. Mayor's daughter or not, Ponche had seen enough re-runs of the Games to know there was no one that made it far like Maisley.

Castor extended his hand the exact same way he had with Ponche and he realised he had no choice but to run with it. "You're in!" he exclaimed, beaming at his little team.

Ponche half-heartedly smiled back. Maisley looked at him and grinned broadly. "It's nice to meet you Ponche. Can you show me how to use a sword?"

He nodded his head.

He would just have to run with it.

At the end of the day, if she was lying, was she really that much of a threat?

 _Probably not._ And for that, Ponche felt guilty. Because regardless of everything he felt, she was just a little girl. Not an enemy. Not someone deserving of death.

A little girl.

 _And she has to die._

* * *

 **For the first time since literally District Five's chapter… it has been three days! I stuck to what I said I would do! How exciting… honestly it was so difficult not posting yesterday… but I held back for y'all. Love u guyz!**

 **Okay so questions!**

 _ **Updated chart of opinions now that everyone has been seen twice?**_

 _ **Anyone you get 'Victor vibes' from?**_

 **Ok so confirmed alliances continue:**

 **Chancellor + Roarke + Destan  
** **Linnea + Neviya + Britta  
** **Iva + Damon  
** **Maisley + Castor + Ponche  
** **More to come!**

 **This chapter marks the halfway point of the Capitol. Every tribute has now had two POVs in this story – they get one more before the Gamesssss. Let's get it.**


	21. House of Cards

**Chapter Twenty-One.**

* * *

 **Training Day Two, Part Two.**

* * *

 **Chancellor Darrian, 18 years old;  
District One Male.**

* * *

Halfway through training and Chancellor was having the time of his life.

Yes there had been a few incidents. He couldn't wait to wipe the smile off the girl from Seven and make Sheridan whatever-her-face watch knowing she couldn't save her anymore. Yes the Careers were now split down the middle and he knew that maybe they were stronger together and perhaps should have stuck it out for as long as possible.

But he also knew that he was stronger. Roarke's fear, Destan's obsession, Linnea's strategic planning – they all told Chancellor that he was the one to beat and they all knew it. He relished it so much. For all the bumps on the road so far, the highs had been so worth it.

"Pass me that ketchup," Chancellor said, gobbling down another spoonful of whatever meaty mush they'd plated up for him. "This stuff is surprisingly nice."

"Maybe you should slow down," Roarke said over his own plate. When Chancellor glared at him, he stumbled over his own stupid tongue. "J-Just because you know – we should get used to – you know – not eating loads."

"You sound like Linnea," Chancellor said, dismissing the thought.

Roarke mumbled something and Chancellor decided to let it slide. Destan handed him the red bottle and he sloshed it onto his plate, cutting another slice of meat and enjoying the Capitolite's hospitality. He looked around at the room as his plate began to empty and could see alliances coming together, little groups of outer-District trash forming groups believing that allies meant survival. _Cute,_ he thought with a grin. He looked at the knife in his hand and imagined tossing it casually at the nearest table. _What could they do to stop me?_ His knife would hit its target and one tribute would be dead before the Games had started.

He didn't, though. Destan was right about one thing – the Games were for the killing. As much as he wanted to wipe the annoying smirk off the girls' faces, especially Britta's, Chancellor would wait for the bloodbath to do the talking.

 _But …_ as he finished his lunch, he saw the girls gathered together in the central table, the same table they'd all eaten at yesterday, and felt his leg begin to bounce. Destan watched him. The one thing he liked about Destan was the fact he wasn't all brainless smiles and idiocy. He knew where they were. Maybe he didn't enjoy it as much as Chancellor, but he was willing to keep him around if only because having someone in the Arena might do him some good for the time being. He'd cut him off eventually, and he was sure Destan knew that, so Chancellor was willing to try and play it smart.

His bow and arrow would do the majority of any strategy he needed, but a little forward-thinking could potentially go a long way.

"I'm bored," Chancellor said. "I'll be right back."

"What do you-?"

Chancellor cut Destan off with a glare. "I said – I'll be right back."

Before his two allies could do anything to stop him, Chancellor found himself walking towards the middle table. So what if he knew he wasn't going to _kill_ them right this very second? It didn't mean he had to just sit back and let them get on with things pretending like they actually had a shot at taking him down. _Silly girls._

He smirked as Britta's eyes landed on him and she stood up.

"Hi-"

"Nope," she said.

"I was just-"

"And again – nope."

Britta wouldn't let him speak and Chancellor's fingers clenched into a fist. He banged it on the table. "Would you let me speak?"

Britta smirked. "You got anything interesting to say?"

Linnea and Neviya looked at their ally and grinned. Chancellor could feel the anger coursing through him but he did his best not to submit to it. It didn't matter if they all got along, if they thought the sun shone out of Britta's ass, none of it mattered. They would die – simple as.

"Chancellor," Linnea now spoke, facing him. "We don't need any of this, alright. It's happened – we're moving on. Whatever happens in the Games is going to happen. Why don't you focus on your own alliance?"

Chancellor shrugged his shoulders. "Destan and Roarke are just fine."

At the mention of Roarke's name, Neviya couldn't help herself but glance over at the table he'd just left from. "Is he alright?"

"Who? Roarke? Yeah. He's with me. Why wouldn't he be?"

Neviya's face contorted from one of care to one of frustration. "He should be sat here with us. He knows that. You know that."

"And yet…"

Neviya rolled her eyes and returned to her lunch, spooning little bits of vegetables and forcing them down her mouth if anything to distract herself from Chancellor. Linnea looked at Britta and frowned.

"And how is Destan?"

Chancellor knew the boy from Four was using his strength because Destan lacked it. He didn't really mind the fact he was being used as a weapon. If anything it was a compliment. Not that he needed compliments.

"Absolutely fantastic. I don't know why you care so much about them, they certainly have forgotten you."

"Oh I doubt that," Britta said, moving closer to Chancellor. "I don't know what you're doing here and quite honestly Chancellor we don't want you anywhere near us. I know that this is the Hunger Games and maybe it frustrates you that we're actually capable of normal human conversation, but you don't scare me. You really don't."

Chancellor picked up the butter knife that was lying on the table. "Oh I don't? You sure?"

He waved the knife in front of her and Britta's eyes just narrowed. He imagined stabbing her in the eye, the squelch and pop as eye-gunk mixed with blood would ooze out the socket. He'd push it in slowly. Up to the hilt. Hearing the skull fracture and Britta's screams turning to dull, deadly silence.

 _Later,_ he thought. _Later._

Before Chancellor could do anything, Britta grabbed the knife, threw it harshly against the nearest empty chair, and used her hands to push herself up from the floor and onto the dining table.

"Everyone!" she shouted.

 _Oh for fuck's sake._

"Britta," Neviya whispered. "Britta, get down."

"No, let her. I want to see," Chancellor said with a smirk.

"Oi! I said everyone!" Britta's irritating voice, made for attention, pierced above the quiet chit-chat coming from some tables and all eyes fell on Britta. The eyes belonged to tributes that Chancellor did not care enough for to even bother learning names. They were nothing but numbers. Tallies and ticks.

Cannons.

Britta pointed at Chancellor. She looked serious. More serious than he'd ever seen her. He truly believed hot air blew between those ears in place of a brain. She'd done nothing to prove him otherwise.

"Y'know what? We all know that us lot," she gestured to her table and then pointed over at Roarke and Destan, "we've trained for this shit. We volunteered and you hate us and yeah maybe that makes us the monsters you so despise and can't wait to see die. And yes you're probably scared as well. Because we stand a chance and none of you do. But this boy…"

Her finger continued to shake in Chancellor's face and as eyes belonging to tributes that were nothing more than filth in his opinion began to turn and face him, he felt his cheeks going red and anger began to replace the fact he'd been genuinely curious to see what Britta would do.

"…this boy is _sick._ I've seen him push some of you, shoot arrows into targets as if his talent is compensating for something, and quite honestly, maybe we could have been scared, but he's nothing to be frightened of. The girls said no and he simply can't bend over and take it. Nope – he has to come up here and stir shit. We might be your enemy, but when the Games begin, think about who has personally tried to demonstrate just how fucking strong he is since we got here. Maybe that's the person you should all focus on first."

Every eye continued to burn into Chancellor and he felt the sheer rage shaking through him. His face felt fiery as Britta grinned at him, stepping down and taking a seat next to Linnea. The girls just gawped at her. It was complete silence. Chancellor was the centre of attention.

He saw every arrow he'd shot to demonstrate how strong he was. He saw the two girls he'd pushed. He saw all the faces he couldn't wait to slaughter in the Games. They were all looking at him.

And not because they were scared.

He stormed off, fists by his side, as far away as he could get.

 _Fuck them all._

He could take on whoever came his way. Maybe Britta wasn't scared of him, but she should be.

 _They all should._

* * *

 **Celestin Elan, 17 years old;  
District Six Male.**

* * *

Celestin still had no idea what had spurred him into talking to Altia.

Even now, watching the girl sporadically tie knots in places that she seemed to be getting frustrated with, Celestin was surprising himself.

It all boiled down to the simple fact that Celestin did not want to die. It was beginning to be the kick up the ass he needed. _Beginning to be,_ he thought to himself.

Altia threw the rope in front of her. "This stupid thing –" She looked at Celestin who stopped himself from grinning at her. "I don't understand how you managed to do it?"

Celestin looked at the rope basket he'd somehow put together and shrugged his shoulders. "It's just making knots. Don't know what the fuss is about."

"You're annoying."

Celestin laughed. "It's a god-given talent."

Altia was lighter than she came across and Celestin enjoyed that about her. She'd almost come close to hitting a trainer that had insulted Celestin's lack of skill and something about Altia struck him as protective. A little voice in the back of his head told Celestin that he could use that. Altia's sense of justice could perhaps be an advantage in the Arena. But Celestin had quickly quenched that thought. He was doing his best to step out of his box but strategical thinking was still a lot of work.

Too much work.

As Altia looked over at her miserable attempt at something Celestin had somehow mastered, he heard a pitter patter of footsteps against the ground and turned to the delightful eyes of Maisley, tailed by two taller, older boys either side.

 _The Queen and her subjects._

He'd come to like Maisley. A lot. In a way that scared even him.

"Alright short stuff?" he asked.

Altia seemed to suddenly become quite uncomfortable at their arrival. She did her best to smile politely but it looked like someone had slapped a dead fish in her face. Celestin found it strangely endearing how much of a mess she was with her emotions. The fact he found something endearing was still foreign for Celestin. He hadn't napped at all since being in the Capitol. Some part of his brain told him there were better things to do with his time.

"See you've got a friend," Maisley said with a jovial smile. "I'm Maisley. District Six's better half."

"Cocky," Celestin said.

"Another lesson by my Father. Always tell the truth," Maisley said, extending her hand to Altia who hesitantly shook it.

"Your father is a politician," Celestin said. "No way did he tell the truth."

Maisley laughed and the boy behind her seemed high-spirited enough to join in. Celestin realised that it looked a bit odd him and Altia being on the ground so he stood up, his ally joining him.

"I'm Castor," the boy from Eight said, tilting his head in the direction of the other boy. "This is Ponche. Maisley told us you aren't the type to make friends. She was surprised to see you here, Altia."

"Charming," Altia mumbled.

Castor laughed. "I didn't mean it that way. It's nice – being here is pushing us out of our comfort zones. Isn't that right Ponche?"

The boy from Eleven, stood the other side of Maisley, nodded his head. Celestin noted he didn't say much. Maisley and Castor were definitely the type to steal all the spotlight anyway. Ponche must have been exhausted.

"Honestly, Celestin. It's good to see you've found someone," Maisley said fondly. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Celestin felt himself going red. _Stop it._ "I don't want to be alone. That's a weird sentence to say but it's true. Seems like you found some friends yourself."

Maisley nodded with a broad smile. "I think we bring the best out of each other. Castor and Ponche have taught me a lot."

Celestin noticed that she didn't say anything about what she was bringing to the table. It couldn't have been much. Celestin liked Maisley a great deal but part of his stomach felt queasy at the prospect of her dying. Of any of them dying. But especially himself. Which only made this entire situation feel completely extraordinary. _In a bad way._

Before Celestin could say anything else to Maisley, out the corner of Celestin's eye, he saw another trio near the station to their right. They were talking and laughing like they were the closest of friends. Part of Celestin found it stupid, this was the Hunger Games after all, but part of him looked at Altia and realised he'd never get that out of her.

He doubted he could get it out of himself.

"Did you think any more about what I said?"

Celestin blinked at Maisley's question. "Huh?"

"That's the two from Seven. And Teak from Five," Maisley looked over at the small group with a smile. Castor and Ponche glanced over too. "Ever thought about a large group?"

Celestin looked at Altia and she looked at him. Before Celestin could say anything else, Sinta's laughter echoed over and he saw the way she was helping Bryce and Teak, and the way they helped her.

"Haven't got long left," Maisley said. "I'll see you later."

Castor and Ponche bid them goodbye as Maisley walked away with her allies. Altia looked at Celestin confused. "What does she mean?"

Celestin awkwardly looked over at the group and nodded towards them. "We talked about – I guess – Altia I don't know how to phrase the question, or make sense of what I want to ask, but-"

"You want to join them?"

Celestin didn't know what to think. He had given it some thought. He was genuinely grateful that he'd found Altia even though he was still trying to make sense of all the emotions that came alongside it. But part of Celestin looked at the group of friends near him and realised that in his entire life he'd never known what that was like. The Hunger Games was hardly the place to start exploring facets of his personality he'd never felt encouraged to discover but also … _when will I ever get the chance again?_

His mouth fell into a line. "Maybe being part of a big group isn't such a bad thing."

"More mouths to feed," Altia said. She sighed, nodding her head. "But, given where we are, maybe it'll be nice to just … pretend for a little while longer. They seem like good people."

"Annoyingly good," Celestin joked. "She doesn't stop smiling."

Celestin led Altia over to the group and the three of them paused. Celestin noticed how close they all stood to each other, how Bryce looked at Sinta, how Teak held the sword clumsily but seemed more proficient than Celestin would have thought coming from Five.

They were all helping each other to become better.

Maybe he needed that.

"Hi, Sinta," Celestin said awkwardly. "This is Altia, from Twelve. I was wondering if…"

"Sure," Sinta said with a smile. "You weren't exactly far away, Celestin. Why should a big group mean something bad?"

She looked at Bryce who smiled meekly. She looked at Teak who nodded his head. And then met Celestin's eyes and extended her hand towards Altia. "It's nice to meet you Altia. Would you like to train with us?"

 _I have four allies._

If he'd told himself before training began that he'd have even one ally, he wouldn't have believed it. But Celestin, at the end of the day, did not want to die.

He did not want to fight, but he was willing to do it with people on his side, protecting him as he protected them.

Maybe this was all worth it.

Becoming someone better.

* * *

 **Spelt Brassard, 16 years old;  
District Nine Male.**

* * *

From where Spelt stood, slicing at the dummy with his knife, he could see Iva chatting with the boy from Twelve – Damon.

The knife felt lax in his hand as he watched them talk, the blonde boy louder and leaning over Iva to help with building the bonfire. He couldn't see Iva's face but he knew just by the few days he'd spent with her that she was probably wearing that frown on her face. She would never swat away the boy, though. Spelt admired Iva. He hoped she'd do well – even win, if he didn't.

Nine deserved a little bit of happiness from all this chaos.

"It might help if you hold it upright."

His gaze went away from his District partner and her new ally and focused back in on the trainer. She was a curt woman – solemn-faced and a little strict but he liked her all the same. She hadn't beaten around the bush in telling Spelt that he was a bit useless with the knife. It only made him want to keep practicing. To feel like he could do _something_ that would give him a chance in the Arena.

"Do you reckon I'm cutting it deep enough?" he asked, looking at the shallow gashes made into the material.

The trainer paused to observe what he'd been doing and shook her head. "Not nearly enough. Especially if it's a moving target. Skin cuts a little bit easier than this material but you have to make sure you extend your arm enough to catch them. The deeper the cut the less chance you have of them getting back up."

She said it with such indifference that Spelt found it disturbing. He looked at the dummy and pictured Iva, or Damon, or anyone else he'd seen in the room. He pictured skin instead of fabric. Of blood instead of cotton. Of an actual life being taken because of the knife in his hand and not just a ruined target to be replaced by another one.

It felt strangely metaphorical of the fact they were tributes and Spelt found himself hating it. He smiled politely at the woman, though, because after all she was just trying to help. He placed the knife back down on the nearby rack and wiped his sweaty hands on the sides of his trousers.

"I think that's enough for now. Thank you for your help."

She didn't so much as smile as she did twitch a little. "You're welcome."

Spelt was starting to enjoy the fact that he could drift around the room, watch other people and chat to the trainers without feeling bound to them. He'd made the decision already what he was going to do in the Games. Iva had told him on the Chariot that she wasn't the type to make friends but he always knew she had it in her.

Spelt didn't want that. Not because it went against who he was entirely. Not even because he saw allies as a detriment to his own survival. It just sounded easier, if anything. He just had to worry about himself. It made more sense.

He walked around aimlessly for the next five minutes. He eyed the pool and shuddered at the thought of returning. There was a reason he'd never bothered trying to swim before. It felt so tucked away from everything and ignored that he doubted there'd be a swimming element to the Arena. If there was he'd do his best to not act like a drowning fool.

He found himself directed towards the club station. Huge wooden batons, thick-studded metal ones and a range in-between were near the dummies this time. They looked a bit easier to use – heavy, but less skill needed. There was a girl already training, smashing into one of the dummies with brute force, and for a moment Spelt thought about leaving her to get on with it.

He didn't mind, though. It was just another tribute. They were all here to train.

He picked up a medium-sized club and felt the weight in his hand, switching it between both to see how it felt. Though strange, it didn't feel so cruel as it did wielding a knife. Maybe it was just how sharp it looked. How easily it slipped into the material and left a permanent cut.

He moved to the dummy next to the girl and heard her panting through exertion. She barely noticed him until he smacked the dummy and she jumped slightly, bringing the club to her side.

"Hi," Spelt said with a smile.

"No," she replied. "Nuh-uh."

She was shaking her head and Spelt couldn't understand why. He'd only come over here to have a go at training with a different weapon.

He decided to swallow away his confusion and continued to politely smile at the short-haired girl. "I'm only here to practice. That's all."

She seemed to ease a little. "The amount of people I've seen that've just walked up to others, strike a conversation, and immediately that's it, they're tethered in the Games. You aren't one of those people are you?"

Spelt didn't need to hesitate in answering. He shook his head. "I'm not looking for any allies, if that's what you're asking. I'm just here to train."

This time she relaxed and smiled. "Sheridan Sannah, District Eleven."

"Spelt Brassard, District Nine."

She resumed clubbing the dummy but with less force, eyeing Spelt as he did his best to do some semblance of damage to the inanimate feature. He whacked the knee and felt it go and then went for the stomach, bringing the club round with too much force and nearly sending him toppling sideways.

There was a chuckle next to him. Sheridan was laughing.

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to stop herself. "I shouldn't laugh. You're trying and that's worth something." She extended her hand, waggling her fingers and Spelt passed the club over. "I think this one may be too heavy for you. I'm no expert but from what I've gathered with mine it helps if you can lift it properly."

"I feel like that's obvious."

She smirked. "You think?"

Spelt chose a lighter club and returned to clobbering the dummy. Sheridan watched him and nodded which filled Spelt with confidence. He liked this. He liked Sheridan. She seemed strong, content with who she was and her position here. Though part of him found it strange – a strong girl like her not being sought out for an alliance.

"May I ask why you aren't with anyone? You've only got one day left."

Sheridan looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not against one. I've been offered if I'm honest and I'm still thinking about it. I could ask you the same thing."

Spelt thought about Iva and Damon and again felt happy for his District partner. "I just … don't want one. There's not much thought behind it really. It's just not me."

"Fair enough."

They continued training side by side.

Spelt felt a warmth inside his gut as Sheridan continued to beat the dummy, they chatted away, and after twenty or so minutes she left him to train by himself. He didn't need those connections but it felt good being able to speak to someone else. It felt natural and he'd never really seen himself as that sort of person.

For the time being, Spelt was content.

He knew it couldn't last forever, but he'd appreciate it for what it was.

Peaceful.

* * *

 **Damon Millers, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Male.**

* * *

 _What a bumpy ride this has been so far,_ Damon thought to himself.

It was true. And for maybe the first time in a long time, he could now forget about his life back home, the violence his father so perpetuated, and the fact that his District partner had been wrapped up in his family's wrongdoings for however long she'd been a victim of it.

Across the Training Hall, Damon watched Altia amongst her large group of allies and found himself smiling. Maybe she was a closed-off, standoffish figure around him, but they had history despite Damon having never met her before. He was pleased for her. He was pleased with himself. Somehow he'd found this strong-minded girl that stood next to him. Iva Giorgi was the perfect ally – the perfect friend.

He could now move on.

"I'm not sure about this," Iva said.

They were stood near the hand-to-hand combat station. A surly looking man stood gazing at the two of them. Iva had followed Damon; typically Damon being the one to latch himself onto yet another place to learn something new. He wanted to do as much as he possibly could because who knew what would be the most useful in a few days time? The whole thing was a little less overwhelming with Iva around even if she didn't seem so keen on where they now stood.

"It's simple," Damon said, smiling. "Isn't it?" His question was now directed at the man who simply shrugged his shoulders, clearly losing patience. "See! Easy."

Iva didn't need to be so unsure. Damon had always thought the best way to impress someone was to swagger over with confidence and force it down someone's throat until they had to like him. Maybe that was honestly why no one had ever given him the time of day. He was learning more about himself with Iva. And he was trying to help her break out of her shell just a little bit too.

"I promise to go easy on you," Damon said with a wink. "C'mon!"

Iva groaned, rolled her eyes, but as usual, a smile proceeded to follow. "Fine," she said, caving. "Do we just…?"

The trainer nodded his head and gestured for them to move onto the central mat. Iva and Damon stood facing each other and Damon found the entire situation strangely amusing. Iva's face now went dead serious as a bell rang but Damon couldn't manage the façade of a steely warrior. He grinned at Iva, took a step forward, and was totally unprepared for the left hook that smashed into his cheek, the leg that wrapped round his own and sent him toppling to the mat. Something sharp and painful throbbed in his knee and he groaned through the chuckle that he couldn't contain.

"Oh my god," Iva said, extending her hand to help him up.

Damon grabbed onto it and forced himself upwards. "That was … interesting …" His knee was painful as he put pressure on it and the trainer stepped towards them, bending down to examine it. It didn't cross Damon's mind that if he was injured it'd put him at a disadvantage already. He couldn't get over how funny Iva's shocked face looked. He didn't mind at all that she'd taken him to the floor quite smoothly.

"It'll be fine," the trainer gruffly spoke. "Might be hard to walk on it today but with some rest don't worry."

"Phew!" Damon said, laughing.

"I can't believe I-" Iva stammered, blushing bright red.

"It's honestly fine. I thought it was awesome!"

Iva tried to smile but it seemed half-hearted. Damon suddenly felt guilty.

"I-"

"Do you know what to do if it were to be worse than this?" the trainer interrupted. "Say you're in the Games and one of you gets injured – broken leg, for example. Do you know how to make a splint? Or how to administer any type of first aid?"

Damon looked at Iva. Iva looked at Damon. A silent no travelled between them.

The trainer latched onto that immediately. His finger lifted and he sighed, pointing to a station quite close to where they stood.

"Go over there and try to learn _something._ You got lucky, kid. I won't be around in the Games to help."

Damon looked at Iva who simply shrugged. "He's got a point," he said.

"Might as well."

The two of them moved towards the first-aid station. There was a kind-looking woman stood at a stall with all sorts of bandages and packs displayed around her. On the ground, looming over a dummy that had been ripped open in the abdomen, another tribute sat on her lonesome.

Damon put his arm out to stop Iva. She bumped into it.

"What?"

He nodded in the tribute's direction and grinned. "Wait a sec. Look."

She seemed an expert at stitching up the "wound" the dummy had. She dabbed something that smelled quite strong even from where they stood and wrapped around a bandage with ease. "I think I'm finished," the girl said to the trainer who beamed and joined her side. "I hope it's okay."

"Perfect," the woman said. "You've got a knack for it."

Iva looked at Damon. He waggled his eyebrows and tilted his head in her direction. "You said you wanted someone else. She looks useful."

"Yeah … maybe …"

Damon took a step forward, not really hearing what Iva had to say. "Hey!"

"No – Damon – wait –"

"Hey!" Damon ignored Iva and strutted over to the girl. The trainer left her with a smile at his arrival and she looked at him, confused and then glanced over at Iva who quickly walked over. "That was really cool. You know a bit about first-aid?"

Damon saw the _5_ embroidered into her sleeve. _Henley Pereira._

"I've learnt some stuff," she said, looking down at the ground, "here and there I suppose."

She reminded him of Iva. Not exactly unfriendly, but cautious. Usually he would have tried to lather on as much self-confidence on his approach as possible. But he was trying to learn. Trying to be a better version of himself without losing too much. There was always room for improvement.

"This is Iva," he said, gesturing to his ally who tentatively waved. "Do you think you could maybe show us some of the tricks you know?"

Henley paused. "I'm not sure. I haven't really –"

"Henley, right?" Iva said. The girl nodded. "He might seem a lot but honestly he's a nice guy and I think that says something about where we are. We're doing our best to pick up as much as we can learn and honestly, you seem like you could bring something to the table that we don't have. Give us a chance? Maybe we'll surprise you."

It was the most he thought he'd ever heard Iva say aloud. He felt strangely proud. A blossom of warmth in his chest.

She looked between Damon and Iva, then down at the work she'd been doing on the dummy, bits of loose fabric spread around and a smile tugged on her lips. "I guess I could try and show you something."

 _Perfect._

Damon sat down with Iva and together with their new ally Henley, he was committed to doing as much as he could to learning something to protect his friends. The Games were a scary thing but they weren't going away anytime soon.

He was ready to do all it took to give it his best go.

And for once – he finally felt like he had a chance.

* * *

 **It's so nice to be writing a third POV for these tributes. I have never done that before in the pre-Games chapters for my story and I know these guys so much better than I've ever known a batch of tributes. Genuinely can't wait to get to the bloodbath but also … I don't actually wanna kill any of them. Sad times.**

 **Question/s!**

 _ **Any tribute that has surprised you so far? This could be in terms of how you felt about them pre-Capitol to how you feel about them now. Or a choice they've made. Or anything really.**_

 _ **What's your favourite tribute archetype to read about in a SYOT?**_

 **This was three days again! Hallelu!**

 **We've got two more confirmed alliances:  
** **Teak + Celestin + Bryce + Sinta + Altia  
** **Henley + Iva + Damon  
** **Still more to come!**

 **One more day of training and we will move on to the next stage of the Capitol. As I said, every tribute that didn't get a training POV in the first half, will get one this half. Training is honestly my favourite. There's so much to explore and develop that I didn't think I could do over three chapters of it.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing guys! Means a lot.**


	22. One More

**Chapter Twenty-Two.**

* * *

 **Training Day Three, Part One.**

* * *

 **Neviya Vavrick, 18 years old;  
District Two Female.**

* * *

"He's not up yet."

Neviya looked over her cereal bowl into the eyes of Tilda, her mentor. Next to her, Roarke's mentor Valerian stirred his porridge absent-mindedly, off in some daydream of his that Neviya had come to realise acted as his escape.

She shrugged her shoulders sadly. "He's not my ally anymore."

"I think it's stupid," Tilda said harshly. "This whole situation is stupid. I've spoken to Ailsa and Savoy and they don't understand why you don't all team up and kill the stupid psycho straight away."

Again, Neviya shrugged her shoulders. "Tell Destan that."

"Yeah well I tried going through his mentor too. It's a bust."

"Then what do you want me to say?" Neviya found her voice getting louder, angrier. "This is the Hunger Games, right? I'm not in some vivid fucking fantasy like Valerian. Does it matter anyway? Only one of us can make it out alive."

She threw the spoon down and ignored the milk droplets that splattered upwards and out onto the table. Neviya looked at Tilda who only gawped back and shook her head, closing her eyes. _Calm down, Neviya. Deep breath._ It wasn't like Neviya to get angry. Or lose control. Everything she was saying right now was definitely correct. She'd told herself time and time again, even before volunteering and meeting the girls and Roarke. If she wanted to win, which she did because she had no desire to come anywhere close to dying, then everyone, no matter who they were, would have to die.

She'd tried to mix her realistic mindset with the fact that she loved being able to just prance about the place and inject a little life into things. If she could still be grounded in her reality, then why not try to smile a bit? It's why she had loved meeting Roarke so much. Meeting Britta and Linnea. Even seeing some of the other tributes try to make light of the situation despite knowing their dark future.

It was why this whole thing hurt even more. And why she couldn't allow it to cloud her judgement any longer.

"I'm going downstairs," Neviya said, taking a final deep breath and smiling at Tilda. "Thank you for waking me."

"Neviya, I-"

She didn't let her mentor continue her tirade against this entire mess. All she heard was a loud groan as the elevator doors opened and Tilda's voice carry over the _ding_ as she pressed the button. "Valerian you utter waste of space. Wake the fuck up!"

She laughed as the doors closed. It felt good to still be able to laugh.

As the elevator continued downwards, Neviya held onto the railing and admired the beauty of the open glass window, brilliant sunlight glaring through and lighting up the picturesque Capitol courtyard in front of her. There were people milling about, minding their own business, some groups who were probably tourists of the Games favourite hotspots congregating in front of the building. She loved the spotlight and the fact the attention was on her. She was a bit like Britta in that respect. The girl was nuts but fun.

 _Forget about Roarke. You have your allies now. Your friends._

The doors to the Training Hall opened and the positive thought about her alliance quickly shattered as she heard arguing coming from about ten feet in front of her to the side. The large alliance that had formed yesterday, the alliance Neviya had noted and tried to convince Britta could be a threat to no avail, carefully sidestepped the shitshow that was Linnea and Britta facing off against Destan.

Neviya sighed. _When will this all stop?!_

She swallowed the lump in her throat and sauntered over to her allies and the greatest shit-stirrer she'd ever had the displeasure to meet. She couldn't help but dislike Destan. Her rational mind wanted to be able to compliment him on taking the initiative but she couldn't allow herself to. She disliked him. Plain and simple.

"What's going on?" Neviya interrupted, speaking over an irritated Britta.

"Oh nothing," Destan grinned. "Couldn't help but bring up the fact that Britta said I looked ever so good in my training outfit the first day. It's even tighter now. What do you think?"

"Fuck you," Britta said, glaring at him.

"Someone's bitter. Had a wet dream over me yet?"

Britta glowered. "More like a nut-mare."

Neviya couldn't help but giggle. "Britta stop," she contained her laughter and tried to return to being serious. "Destan, I mean this as politely as I can muster with the way I'm feeling right now, but would you kindly piss off back to whatever corner you slunk out of. You have a grumpy child to babysit. I can imagine he's not too happy with the show from yesterday"

Destan's annoying, lecherous grin on his face dropped and this time he returned the narrowed eyes and pointed them straight at Britta. "You couldn't just keep your fat mouth shut could you? What did you have to do that for? Getting all these idiots riled up thinking they have a chance against him – I mean – us!"

Linnea just sighed dramatically and put her head in her hands. "I'm out guys," she started to walk away. "Girls, when you're done with this child, come and find me."

Neviya didn't blame her for leaving. This entire situation was starting to grate.

Britta rounded on Destan, beaming with pride at yesterday's stunt. Neviya was quite proud of her really. She knew that they would do whatever it took in the bloodbath to take down as many people as possible, it was just part of what they'd signed up for, but the idea that maybe the fear over Chancellor could be taken away from the outer-Districts and a sense of courage might take its place? Neviya thought it was genius coming from a girl she'd always found to be a little dim.

Dim in the most lovely way possible.

"I'm just going to paraphrase what my dear friend Neviya said." Britta smiled. "Piss off."

Neviya noticed Destan's fists clenching and prepared herself for whatever idiotic move he was about to make next when the elevator doors opened again. A bleary-eyed Roarke stumbled his way through, rubbing the tiredness from his expression and smiling sadly over at Neviya. He waved, something that he had a habit of doing instead of speaking to her anymore, but she didn't return the favour.

The pit of sadness in her stomach bloomed again at the sight of him. She could try to cut ties but it was a tie that was stronger than she'd anticipated. Something that had grown from her whole ideology back in Two. _Why can't the world just enjoy itself a little bit more?_

"Fuck you Britta," Destan shouted. "And fuck you too Neviya. We don't need you. We don't-"

Neviya's sadness in a flash was replaced by sheer rage. Without thinking, her fist connected with Destan's nose and he stumbled backwards, gasping with pain and shock.

As soon as the anger came, it was subdued and she saw Chancellor now stood next to Roarke, the two of them watching the exchange. Chancellor was laughing. Roarke looked horrified.

"Wow…" Britta seemed lost for words.

Her fist unclenched and fell to her side. "I … I …" She had no idea what to say as Destan scampered off to his allies, droplets of blood following him as he went.

"That fucking rocked!" Britta exclaimed, wrapping an arm around Neviya's shoulders.

"Yeah… rocked …" Neviya didn't share Britta's enthusiasm for her actions.

 _Forget about Destan. Forget about Chancellor. And forget about Roarke._

She had to keep repeating that in her head, over and over, never letting herself forget where she was and why she was here.

It was the only thing keeping her sane.

* * *

 **Bryce Hayfield, 17 years old;  
District Seven Male.**

* * *

Bryce didn't want to admit it to himself, because in doing so he was scared it might vanish instantly, but he couldn't help it. For the first time in a long time he felt happy.

He felt like he was being accepted.

Part of a team.

"You shouldn't hold it like that," Sinta said, bringing her hand round Celestin's waist and moving his fingers deftly over the shaft of the spear. "Like …" she wiggled his fingers slightly upwards and grinned, "…that."

When Sinta unwrapped her arms, Celestin's face went a deep shade of red and he stammered, looking at the spear which meant his fingers instantly slid back down. "I … uh … thanks."

"Don't mention it," Sinta said beaming.

"When did you learn how to hold a spear?" Altia asked, picking her own up from the rack. Bryce didn't mind the girl from Twelve. She was quite closed off but seemed willing to talk to them. Bryce wouldn't have said he was _as_ close to her as he was with Teak and Sinta, but he was willing to give it his best shot. They were an alliance now. They would depend on each other in the Arena.

Sinta threw her spear and clapped her hands cheerfully as it hit the third ring from the centre. _She's getting better,_ Bryce thought, proud of his friend. "I'm no Career but we've been coming back here since the first day. We're getting there, aren't we Bryce and Teak?"

"Hm?"

Teak was distracted by a book he'd borrowed from the wildlife station. He was flicking through pages and would occasionally point out something he took particular interest in. Sinta was always the only one to really reply to something he said. Not because no one cared, but they were all too focused on their own training. Anything to hone their own skills.

"Nothing," Sinta laughed. "Bryce?"

"I – uh … I mean yeah as a team we're getting better," Bryce said. "At spears."

His stomach was still uneasy about the whole prospect that they were actually feeling cheerful about their developing skill at holding a weapon. None of them could get over that surely? With every throw, Sinta may have acted as if she was calm and collected about it, but she'd cried last night about how scared she was and Bryce being the only one around, after everything she'd done for him, felt compelled to comfort her.

 _I don't want her to die. I don't want anyone to die._

Celestin sat down next to Teak after letting his spear fall to the ground with a rattle. His face started to lose its reddish hue and he awkwardly fell into light conversation with Teak about the page he was on. Altia continued to throw spear after spear, chatting occasionally with Sinta who remained nearby to offer some pointers she'd picked up.

Bryce watched them all. His mismatch of allies. Pieces of a puzzle he was delighted at seeing slowly come together. Maybe the Games meant only one of them could survive, but that didn't mean everything had to fall apart the first day. As long as they had each other, they stood a shot at making it as far as they possibly could.

Five minutes went by and Bryce smiled as Sinta walked next to him, quietly leaving Altia to her own devices. He felt her closeness and found comfort in it. He regularly still thought of Zoya and how much she would have gotten along with Sinta. He would have loved to have introduced the two to each other.

"I think we still have room for one more," Sinta said.

Bryce blinked. "What?" _One more?_ He looked at their group. He was content with them because they seemed genuine people, but the number was still … well, large. They weren't exactly targets but … _one more?_

"She's over there," Sinta said, raising her arm. "Just one more. I think it's meant to happen."

Bryce's eyes followed to where Sinta was pointing and a few stations across from where they were, feet paddling in the pool solemnly, he could see Sheridan Sannah on her own.

"She was kind to us," Bryce said.

It was only two days ago but it felt a lifetime since he'd let anger fuel him on at the sight of Sinta on the ground in the wake of the monster from One. Ever since the girl from Four had stood on that table, he felt a little less scared of him. And now that he had a large group by his side, he couldn't help but feel protected from whatever hell Chancellor had in store.

"Let's go over then," Bryce continued. "We should ask her."

"You go," Sinta said.

Bryce's stomach flipped. "I don't think I can."

"Why not?"

"What if she says no?" Bryce's mind flashed with the possible rejection and he hated the idea of him being the reason why. He wouldn't say it right. What if she stormed off?

Sinta nudged him with her shoulder. "Don't be like that. You're a genuine guy, Bryce. You stood up for me."

"I guess."

Sinta nudged him again. "Go over. If she says no, she says no. It doesn't mean you failed."

Bryce nodded and compelled his legs to carry him over. At first he couldn't move for the nerves that twisted his stomach around and around. But for Sinta's sake and for their own, he knew Sheridan would be an excellent ally. She seemed competent. There was a strength to her that Bryce knew he lacked more than anything.

He sat down quietly next to Sheridan and tried not to flinch at the way she glared up at him. "Mind if I sit?" When she realised who it was, she relaxed a little, scooting over. The water was cool around Bryce's toes as he took his shoes and socks off. He almost felt relaxed.

"Doesn't take a genius to know why you're here, Bryce."

Bryce tried to confidently laugh like Sinta would have but it sounded like a strangled chuckle. He felt his cheeks burn. "Is it difficult, being alone?"

"Here? Oh no absolutely not – I'm loving the idea of fighting for my life. Just me, my sword, I'm sure we'll get along just fine!" Sheridan's voice wasn't angry but Bryce winced all the same. She sighed. "I'm sorry. If I'm honest – and don't you dare tell anyone – I'm scared. It felt like we had forever from the moment we were reaped but now the days are getting shorter and time just flashes by. The Games start soon. Doesn't that terrify you?"

Bryce wanted to be sick. He didn't quite place a hand on Sheridan's shoulder – something told him she wouldn't be receptive to that – but he budged a little closer to her all the same. "It's natural for us to feel petrified at the idea of where we're going. And we can try to cram in as much training as we can but we're just kids … normal kids." He laughed because what else was he supposed to do? If he didn't laugh he'd cry. "At least I hope we're normal. I don't know you very well."

"I'm as normal as they come," Sheridan said, laughing. "I'm actually quite boring. Again – don't tell anyone I said that."

"Promise," Bryce said.

He could feel the confidence of Sinta's trust filling him up with its warmth and for the last time he moved just an inch closer to where Sheridan sat. She didn't seem to notice. If she did, she didn't care.

"I'll ask only once and respect your answer. Would you like to join us?"

Sheridan paused, her face twisting with unease. "You have a large group, Bryce. Does that not scare you?"

"I think it comes with its pitfalls, but also its strengths. More eyes to see things, more people by your side, more _friends._ "

Sheridan winced at the word and Bryce immediately regretted saying it.

"I don't want friends here, Bryce," Sheridan confessed. "C'mon man. Look where we are. We shouldn't do friends."

"Then just look at us as allies. Allies who will do anything to help you in the Games."

He wasn't sure if he'd done well or ruined it completely. As he stood up to leave her alone, Bryce was flabbergasted by the nod of Sheridan's head and the fact that she stood up to join him.

"I guess, for as long as we possibly can, I'll join you guys," Sheridan said. "You've got a good friend in Sinta, it seems. The girl doesn't stop smiling, but it's … nice." She paused and her face curled up painfully, as if a memory flashed by. "Yeah. She's nice."

Bryce led her over to her group and as introductions were made, he caught Sinta's eye and the nod that followed a smile made his heart blossom.

 _I did it._

He was feeling as good as could be expected.

For Bryce, that meant the world.

* * *

 **Shual Armenteros, 18 years old;  
District Ten Male.**

* * *

"And you aren't worried at all?" Shual asked Carys.

"Not really, no."

Carys might not have been, but Shual was. "It's the third day. We've only got a few hours left and-"

She laughed kindly, something that Shual noticed Carys had begun to do a lot more around him recently. "If you want an ally, go and get one. I'm sure there's loads of people who would be happy to have you."

The two of them were sat on the tables that were put out for lunch. Both were sweaty from their morning training and even though lunch was still a couple of hours away, they were taking a short break. Shual and Carys knew that neither of them would be allies in the Games but they'd taken a liking to each other.

 _In small doses,_ Shual thought as he looked at Carys. _She's not exactly my friend but I admire her for what she can do._

"I've spent the past three days just watching everyone that I've forgotten to … well … I feel stupid," Shual confessed. He didn't like it – feeling this type of way. It wasn't like Shual. Never had been. He wasn't the type to allow himself the chance to feel ashamed, or upset, or distracted in any way. He'd always just kept his head down and done the best of what he could to achieve in any opportunity that had presented itself.

That had been his strategy going into this. Stick well back, don't jump into things but knowing the outcome was to find allies, and ensure they were actually capable enough to have a layer of benefit. He didn't mean for his approach to come across so cold and callous, but then again, he hadn't exactly expected everything that had gone on in the past week. Sometimes things needed a little bit of distance in their approach.

Carys on the other hand seemed happy enough to be by herself. He'd watched her with mild amusement at the way she'd tried to fill in every single station that the Capitol had to offer and actually been pleasantly surprised to see her tackle the survivalist stations with equal importance.

There was a brain behind all the curse words after all.

"Who's caught your eye then?" Carys asked, leaning back from where she sat, yawning. "Anyone you've deemed worthy of your presence?"

"Ha, ha," Shual said. "And honestly – I'm not sure. I think my approach to this has been all wrong. Most people now have someone."

"Not everyone," Carys said. "You've got the skeevy looking boy from Nine."

"He does not look skeevy," Shual said.

"Meh," Carys shrugged her shoulders. "He looks like he smells bad. A bit crusty."

"Charming as ever."

Carys laughed. "You could join the Careers? I'm sure the sadist from One would gladly have you as a dartboard to practice on."

Shual thought about what the girl from Four had done yesterday at lunch. He wondered how everyone would take it moving on and what may occur in the Games. He didn't intend on getting into any fights unless absolutely necessary. Anything to keep himself alive.

"And you've also got…" Carys paused, and as if on cue, a belligerent looking tribute – Nikos Rioux - sidled on past the two from Ten, waving with a smirk on his face at Carys.

Her face crumpled in anger and Shual moved closer to her as if by instinct. "Don't," he warned, quietly. "He's not worth it."

"I know," Carys took a deep breath. "I'm learning, don't you worry."

"Good."

She stood up, stretch her arms with a yawn, and sighed deeply. "Honestly the girl from Three, Albie, and her ally seemed pretty impressive. Much more your kind of people. On the same wavelength. In the actual moment of my little, uh disagreement, she annoyed me, but looking back, I'm glad she stood between me and that thug."

Shual's mind whirled.

"Just a thought," Carys said, striding away. "See you later!"

 _Albie and Armina. Hm._

He stood up and let his eyes scan around the room. Carys had told him about Albie and Armina and what they'd done. Or more what Albie had done. It hadn't surprised Shual when Carys had told him about her encounter with Nikos because every-time he'd seen the boy from Three, he'd been beating the living snot out of anything lifeless he could get his hands on.

Carys seemed to be getting better at taming those rough edges. Nikos seemed to be unfurling them even more.

His feet seemed to be carrying him forwards without much thought behind them. His eyes hovered over every station in his nearby vicinity and as he continued around the hall, after three minutes, he saw the two girls in question sitting side by side, sifting through berries and different herbs.

 _Good,_ Shual's mind immediately thought. _They don't just value what a weapon can do._

Shual knew his brain was really his greatest asset. It was good to see other tributes honing more realistic skills.

He watched them from afar. Even though he knew time was ticking away, he couldn't get over the initial fear of that hurdle he had to jump. Something always kept him back. Something ticking in the back of his mind about the uncertainty of his choices.

He saw Armina nudge Albie's shoulder and her head tilted backwards.

 _Uh … oops …_

Both girls turned around in unison and he was surprised to see them both smiling. Not exactly beaming with happiness. But pleasant nonetheless.

"Can we help you?" Albie said. "There's enough room if you want to sit."

Shual felt embarrassed and immediately told himself off for feeling so silly. He nodded his head with his own smile and moved closer, sitting down next to Albie and looking at the pile Armina had in front of her.

"Don't eat those," Armina's lips twitched uncomfortably, pointing to a small blue one in front of her. "I found out the hard way." Her stomach made a rumble and Albie laughed lightly. "Not again…"

She rushed off and Shual couldn't help but laugh alongside Albie.

"Is there not some sort of guide?" Shual asked.

"We have a trainer," Albie said, pointing to someone who stood off in the distance, clearly avoiding them. "And there's some books with interesting pictures. But it's not that hard to grasp really. Armina got a little bit impatient for lunch I think."

"They do look good," Shual commented.

"They do, don't they?"

He was astounded at how comfortable he suddenly felt. This was the first person he'd spoken to that wasn't Carys. He'd been so involved in his own observant strategy – to make sure he made the right decision – that he had allowed himself to remain completely distant from every single tribute.

He'd seen the drama from some other tributes, mostly the Careers, and actively stayed away from it. He'd seen alliances coming together made up of smiles and loyalty and had thought how silly it all was.

He was thinking in a way he thought was intelligent, but maybe he had to let loose just a little? Perhaps every step he was taking didn't have to be so perfect that the destination became impossible to reach.

"I'm Shual," he said. "District Ten."

"Oh I know, but it's nice to meet you. Albie from Three and my charming friend with the upset stomach is Armina from Eight," Albie said. "Can I ask why you were watching us?"

Again, that flicker of embarrassment which he quickly smothered. "There's only a few hours left and I feel like I haven't actually done anything with my time here. Nothing that's really mattered."

Albie nodded. "I get that. I try to be smart about things too. Sometimes way too smart. And then you get so in your head that you can't actually see the way out of it and the thing you wanted to achieve gets even further away."

It felt strange how easily Albie put that into words. He saw something in her that he saw in himself. It made Shual feel comforted.

"Would you-"

"Do you think-"

Both started speaking at the same time. Albie laughed, Shual gestured with his hand for Albie to continue, and she shook her head. "You go."

He cleared his throat.

"Have you got room for one more?"

Albie nodded. "I'm sure Armina won't mind a bit. You seem like you've got a good head on your shoulders, Shual. I think it's a great idea."

 _Is it?_

Shual's mind immediately went to that question and he snuffed it out. He didn't want to think like that for the time being. When the Games started – sure. But for now, he allowed himself the chance to feel at ease for once.

"Fantastic," he said.

Armina joined them soon after and seemed perfectly content with Shual allying with them.

Maybe Carys hadn't felt worried about no allies, but Shual honestly had. It had been getting to him more than he'd cared to admit.

Now he felt at comfort.

His mind told him not to, but he did anyway.

Things were finally starting to fall into place.

* * *

 **Carys Lavell, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female.**

* * *

Truthfully, she was worried.

Very worried.

She was enjoying getting to know Shual as much as he would allow her in, but she hadn't wanted to admit that to him. It was hard – yes he was from Ten, but he was also someone that she had to remind herself every day was in the way of her getting home alive.

Across the room she could see Nikos hulking around and swinging a club at a dummy. She'd gotten so angry at him but also after the altercation, she'd felt ashamed.

Was that how other people saw her? She'd found her anger as a way of channelling her pain. It made it easier than actually admitting to herself there was something wrong. But she didn't want to be alone in the Games. Not really.

There was only so much she could do by herself.

"Back again?"

Carys nodded at the trainer who gestured to the dummies that he'd had to sort out. He didn't seem to mind that Carys enjoyed knocking around them all as opposed to just one. He seemed quite content with the company if anything.

As did Carys. Though she didn't want to admit that.

Her fists connected with the fabric and she felt all her emotions coming through the punches and kicks. It rattled around on its stand and as Carys felt comfortable in her strength, she did her best to distance herself from the fact that it wouldn't be dummies she'd be attacking in the Arena. Yes – the boy from Three, Nikos, had made her want to smack him round the face. No – that did not mean she wanted to actually _kill_ him.

"I'd hate to be on the receiving end of that," the trainer joked as Carys took a step back, swiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "You've got a mean punch."

She jumped on the spot, left foot then right foot, feeling the adrenaline pumping through her body. "I know it's a bit chaotic. But I've tried finessing it and I don't think I'm that sort of girl. Dainty little slaps ain't for me."

"And they don't have to be."

Carys gritted her teeth and nodded, resuming her relentless attack against the dummies. She didn't really have much skill to what she did and had tried the past three days to pick up new ones. It was tough, though. Where actual thought and care had to go into the use of some of these weapons, Carys found that she struggled with that. Punching away and hoping for the best had always been more her style.

"Seems you have a visitor."

Carys barely registered what the trainer had said when she brought her fist round and lifted her leg up ready to kick the dummy. When a face popped up next to her, her heart leapt into her throat and she stumbled backwards, foolishly toppling to the ground.

"What the fuck!" she glared at the girl in front of her, whose mouth formed a perfect circle and she hurriedly moved forwards, extending a hand. "Do you want a concussion?"

"I'm so sorry."

She extended her hand but Carys was too stubborn to accept it. She patted herself down and awkwardly fumbled up to her feet. The girl was a little bit shorter than her, eyes bright and cheeks now burnt red with what Carys assumed was embarrassment.

 _Think about what Shual said. What Hale would always say._ She thought of her brother and rather be angry at the girl, she took a deep breath and focused back in on the intruder.

"You got a name?"

She smiled. "Maisley. District Six." She had a bubbly sort of voice. Grating. But Carys couldn't get over the fact she looked like a deer caught in headlights. Innocent. _Like Hale._ It made her anger at being embarrassed start to ebb away. "And you?"

"District Ten."

"Your name's District Ten?" Maisley giggled.

"Carys," she stumbled out. "Carys Lavell. From Ten – I'm from District Ten."

Carys had no idea why she was acting like an idiot. Maisley continued to smile up at her and whilst Carys wanted to be suspicious of anyone just randomly walking over to her, Maisley's demeanour made it hard to have any ill-will against the girl.

"You on your own?" Carys blurted out. "I just meant – well it's near the end of training, is all." She shrugged her shoulders, trying to act casual. "Not that there's anything wrong with being on your own."

"I didn't say there was," Maisley said.

"Good. Glad we established that."

Maisley laughed and Carys found her lips stating to curl into the makings of a grin.

"And no," Maisley said. "I'm not on my own."

"You look pretty alone to me."

Maisley pointed in the direction of two boys that were busy talking at a station nearby. She noticed how one of them – the kid from Eleven – was busy looking over at Maisley and then quickly would snap back to his ally's attention. The other one, what's-his-face from Eight seemed quite content with whatever it was they were getting on with.

"Cute," Carys said.

"Castor and Ponche. They've been fantastic, honestly. But I just felt like we were – I'm not sure how to word it really – were missing something?"

Carys felt the worries of not finding an ally begin to eat away at her again and if she were anyone else, she might have immediately jumped at the girl and begged to be in her alliance. Anything to not be alone. But she was Carys and Carys found it very hard to do that. Her eyebrow raised instead as the girl continued to ramble on and on about her alliance.

As Maisley finished relaying her meeting with the boys, she took a deep breath and gestured to Carys. "And that's where you come in. We could always do with someone who looks like they know a little bit about fighting."

Carys looked over at the dummy that had been high-kicked into another. "No idea what gives you that impression."

"Do you know a lot then? About it?"

"Not really. Make a fist, extend your arm, hope it connects. That's the best way of doing it."

Maisley laughed again and Carys found her barriers beginning to shake. She was just a young girl – scared no doubt of their situation. Making the most of whatever time she had left. And despite all that, she could still smile and laugh. Usually it would irritate her to no end people being silly with their emotions, but there was a genuineness to Maisley. Carys couldn't point it out exactly.

"Well you make it look a lot harder than that," Maisley said. "Also – well I told the boys as well that I could get us sponsors through my father. That's what sort of got them on my side. I mean look at me. Who would ally with the youngest one here?"

"I don't think that's really fair," Carys said.

Maisley paled. "What?"

"No – not about your father or anything. I mean it's not fair no one would ally with you because you're the youngest. Age might be important in some things but you could surprise us. You might have something in you that none of us have."

"I doubt that," Maisley laughed. "But I'm happy to give my all for whoever is with me in that Arena. And I'd like to think they would do the same for me."

Carys couldn't help but smile at Maisley as her eyes drifted over the large clock that hung on the wall.

Ten minutes until lunch.

A few hours until training was over.

She had to make a decision and it didn't look like there were many options. She couldn't get past seeing her brother in Maisley, and something about that both scared her and drew her to the girl.

 _Why the fuck not? Let's go for it!_

"Count me in," Carys said. "If that's what you're asking me."

Maisley clapped her hands and smiled. "Awesome. Let's go and meet the boys."

Carys found herself being led away by the youngest tribute in the whole Games. She didn't mind that. She was learning bits about herself that she hadn't always wanted to confess to but was starting to understand could not always be there if she wanted a chance at winning.

Those walls had to start to crumble, just a little at least.

This was the best way of starting to become someone that might actually survive this thing.

It astounded Carys she was actually confessing to something needing to be changed about her, but she was willing to give it a go.

At this point, she was willing to try anything.

* * *

 **Don't hate me guys for updating literally the next day. I'm honestly worried that the UK might open schools soon and if I have to go back into work, who knows what will happen with this story. I've genuinely fallen in love with it and I know if I get to the Games, even if I have to go back to work, it WILL finish. So sorry for the daily update but that's my reasoning.**

 **Some more confirmed alliances! (in fact – I know you'll hear from Nikos next chapter, but I'm sure you can all guess he won't be finding anyone.) So here's the whole list of alliances below and they're also on the blog!**

 **#1:** Chancellor, Roarke, Destan  
 **#2:** Linnea, Neviya, Britta  
 **#3:** Teak, Celestin, Sinta, Bryce, Sheridan, Altia  
 **#4:** Maisley, Castor, Carys, Ponche  
 **#5:** Albie, Armina, Shual  
 **#6:** Henley, Iva, Damon  
 **Loners:** Nikos, Spelt

 **There is also another poll on my profile asking for your favourite alliance so please go ahead and vote on that!**

 **For anyone interested, we have five more chapters of the Capitol left! One more training, one Gamemaker sessions, two interview chapters, and the launch chapter. The launch chapter won't have POVs – if you read the launch chapters in my last couple of SYOTs, you'll have a bit of a better idea what I'll do for them!**

 **Long A/N over. Love you all!**


	23. Final Call

**Chapter Twenty-Three.**

* * *

 **Training Day Three, Part Two.**

* * *

 **Nikos Rioux, 18 years old;  
District Three Male.**

* * *

It was the final lunch-time of training and Nikos found himself sat alone.

Two days ago, on the first day of training, it hadn't been so glaringly obvious that he was by himself. Most tributes hadn't yet found an alliance. The Careers dominated the central table as a collective unit, as ever annoying in their cocky bravado, whilst the rest of the tributes found their own seats to solemnly eat their lunch.

As Nikos bit into his sandwich, on the table in the far left, he realised he was perhaps the only person he could see that had no one to talk to. It made him feel something that he didn't like. Something that subdued the anger and left him feeling … sad.

He hadn't gone out of his way to ignore the other tributes. But in Nikos' mind, the best way of making it far in the Games wasn't the people that could bog him down and hold him back, but the things he could actually learn. He'd spent ages going over the smaller, less violent stations, and as quickly as he'd accumulated that knowledge, he'd focused on actually becoming more of a physical threat than he currently was.

Something about the way he'd lost himself to letting out all his inward anger at the position he'd put himself in, and the way the other tributes continued to find themselves together, and the bitch from Ten, and just everything – it made him feel shitty.

He blamed himself. He wanted to restart the whole three days.

 _You don't need them, Nikos._ He tore another chunk of salami from his sandwich and swallowed it down, forcing the cool drink next to him past his lips. _You're a volunteer. Surely that means something from the Capitol's viewpoint?_

Until the conversation with his mentor, he hadn't actually considered the fact that because of his status as a volunteer, it had immediately drawn the attention of the Capitol. He was a favourite in these Games from a betting viewpoint. The part of him that loathed the Capitol dismissed that status. The part of him that wanted to survive and make a better life for himself from the ashes of the chaos embraced his new spotlight.

From the table nearest to Nikos, he could see Albie and her two allies. He'd seen her with the girl from Eight – Armina – the other day. The large lad, Shual from Ten, he was a new addition. Something about him seemed competent. Albie herself was definitely capable. He didn't really want to see his District partner as a threat. She actually had his respect – although he'd never say that – and it didn't mean he wanted her to die.

She would, though. And if he had to be the one to do it, then so be it.

"Afternoon," he looked up at the voice. A horrid, snide little grin from Carys struck him right in the face and his lips curled. "Enjoying your lunch?"

"Carys – c'mon," the boy from Eight – Castor – called from a few steps ahead.

Carys waved at him. "See you around."

Nikos felt his fists clench. He'd heard Shual earlier tell her to calm down – to not rise to the bait. Nikos knew people like her well enough that suddenly becoming something you weren't wasn't as easy as others liked to make it sound. Nikos knew Carys because Nikos saw himself in her. And for that he disliked her even more.

If he was going to calm himself down, he needed distraction. As lunch was still ongoing, Nikos scanned the room and spotted on one of the middle tables, furthest right, maybe the only other person in this room that wasn't with someone. Over the racket that the girls from One, Two and Four were making, Nikos contained himself enough to walk on over, slamming his tray down and startling the boy.

He smiled. "Didn't mean to make you jump."

Spelt Brassard did his best to return the smile but Nikos saw him move a seat to the right, putting distance between the two of them. "That's okay," he mumbled.

"Mind if I sit?"

Something told Nikos that he did mind but he ignored it. He was drawn to Spelt purely because he was the only person that hadn't surrounded himself under the false belief that allies would take him somewhere. Nikos had to believe that being by himself was the best option. If it wasn't, he'd give in to the sadness that revolved around the fact he'd put himself in the very position he no longer wanted to be in.

Spelt smiled once more, and as funny as it looked for him to be forcing it out, Nikos didn't mind. He knew himself well enough to know he wasn't the most savoury person around. Still, he didn't go out of his way to be liked.

"Got much training done the past few days?" Nikos asked.

Spelt nodded. "I've done my best, I guess." For a moment, he almost looked sad, but he smothered that down and looked back again at Nikos. "What about you?"

"Only as much as I can get in. They don't give you an awful lot of time to prepare, do they?"

"I heard in the early Games this part was skipped entirely," Spelt said. "You took a train to the Capitol and the next morning the Games began." He shivered. "Could you imagine?"

 _Meh._ Part of Nikos actually might have liked that. Strip this process down for all its false pageantry and get the real thing going. It wasn't as if he wanted to kill but it was better than this.

The other part of Nikos wanted longer to make himself feel competent with something. The two Career alliances annoyed him, but he also knew they were the biggest threats here.

"Not finding it a bit lonely by yourself?" Nikos asked, changing the subject.

Spelt shook his head firmly. "Not in the slightest. I hope my District partner Iva and her friends do well, but it's not for me."

"I'm alone too," Nikos said.

"You aren't going to-"

Nikos laughed. "Don't get your hopes up. I didn't come over here to make the final alliance of training. I just thought I'd say hi."

Spelt seemed to be warming up a little and Nikos was surprised he was managing a conversation without grumbling or arguing. Something about Spelt he was drawn to. Perhaps it was simply because he was the only other person by himself.

"Who's your District partner?" Spelt asked.

Nikos pointed to the table where she sat with her two allies. "Albie. She's found herself a nice little group."

 _I'm not jealous,_ Nikos thought. _Not in the slightest._

"Do you hope they do well too?"

"Not as well as me," Nikos joked. "But if they do, then I guess I won't be around to congratulate them."

"I suppose so."

Nikos didn't know what else to say to Spelt. Neither did Spelt towards Nikos. They sat there until the bell tolled signalling the end of lunch and with a goodbye, Spelt left Nikos to his own devices.

Albie looked at him as she walked past and nodded her head. He appreciated the fact that despite all his shortcomings, she didn't outright ignore him. This whole new life he was leading just confused him. He knew it had been his choice at the end of the day, but with each step he was having to take, he wondered if he could see the journey out to the very end.

 _I have to. Otherwise – this was all for nothing._

With that thought in his head, he did his best to ignore any semblance of jealousy over all the alliances around him, convincing himself they were making mistakes, and resumed his training.

* * *

 **Teak Underwood, 16 years old;  
District Five Male.**

* * *

Teak looked at his alliance with pride.

Not just pride in them, but pride in himself. He was surprised he'd found it within who he was to be able to find not just one ally, but five. He hadn't expected Sinta and Bryce to offer an alliance on the first day but ever since then, he was finding himself coming more and more out of his shell.

He just wanted to do what was best for the whole team. He was willing to give it his best shot when the Games started and not just for his sake, but for everyone.

Sinta and Bryce were busy sparring, sword against sword, when Sinta let hers drop and took a deep breath, exhaling with sweat dripping from her brow. "Guys, one sec, I've had a thought."

Sinta hadn't exactly labelled herself as leader but they all knew she was the one that had made it possible for them to all be together. Bryce was definitely the person she was closest to and Teak didn't mind that so much. They each bought their own personalities and skillsets to the group. He knew he wasn't the best fighter so he'd been trying to pack his mind full of as many useful tidbits as he could over the past few days.

He smiled at Sheridan as she moved closer to Sinta. She tried something akin to a smile back. Teak took that as good progress.

"Everything okay your majesty?" Celestin called out, breaking conversation from Altia.

Sinta laughed. There was no ill-will to what Celestin had to say. If anything, the way he looked at Sinta seemed quite reverent.

She pointed to the clock behind them all. "I reckon with us only having a few hours left, and with our own private sessions tomorrow, we should try to cover as much ground as possible. Fill the gaps of what you think you need readdressing."

Teak watched Sinta with that pride continuing to flicker in his chest. She may not have seen herself as a leader, but it came naturally. Teak was definitely more of the follower personality type. He didn't envy her position but he'd do everything in his power to help Sinta from where she stood.

"So, what's the plan?" Altia asked.

"Split up into pairs and see what else you can cram in," Bryce said, replacing Sinta's voice. He was starting to impress Teak similarly. Finding his feet. "And also use it as time to get to know each other. We're a large alliance. Right Sinta? That was right, wasn't it?"

"Exactly," she said with a nod. "You guys okay with that?"

Sheridan hummed her assent. Teak nodded fervently. Altia and Celestin seemed quite content.

"Excellent. Well, the one person I don't know much about is definitely Bryce, so you're with me."

His face went whiter if that were possible. Sinta giggled.

"Only joking, Bryce," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'll go off with Sheridan. Cel' join up with Bryce. And Teak are you okay with Altia?"

He looked at the girl in question as her eyes found him and something felt a bit unsure in his stomach. He didn't like that instant sensation. She was his ally after all. Maybe they didn't know each other but this was as good a time as any to try and learn something about someone he was determined to help.

Sinta's plan was great. They were a large alliance. They had to trust each other.

"Alright with me," Teak said.

"C'mon," Altia gestured with her head and off they went, splitting from the group. "What do you fancy trying?"

"I'm a bit rubbish at climbing," Teak confessed.

"Then climbing it is."

He felt embarrassment at the thought of showing himself up front of Altia who seemed reasonably strong, but now was as good a time as any to try his best at building up that skill. They headed over to the net which was currently occupied by a solitary figure. Teak tried to ignore the fact it was a Career male – boy from Four, Destan or something – as he swung from the net with ease.

"You're close with Sinta, right?" Altia asked, tapping her foot.

"Hm?" Teak blinked, looking away from Destan and focusing back in on Altia. "Oh yeah – yeah definitely. Her and Bryce have been kind."

There was a pause as Altia's brow furrowed. A thought seemed to flash in her mind and Teak felt bad – had he said something wrong?

"Does that not concern you?" she asked.

 _Concern me?_ He didn't understand. Sinta and Bryce were most definitely not the type of people to be remotely worried about. He was learning to trust people properly, especially those that were showing him the type of kindness he'd always wanted.

"What do you mean?"

Altia sighed. "They're nice – like really nice. Almost too nice."

"How can you be too nice?" Teak asked, confused.

"We've got Celestin who needs a bit of a kick at times but is trying which I respect. And we don't know much about Sheridan but she seems competent enough. I don't think there's a question about trusting each other, but think about it – we have an alliance of six."

Teak didn't like where the conversation was going. A large alliance had never been a worry of his to have going into the Games. In fact, it made him feel more confident than he'd felt in a long time.

"We aren't exactly threatening anyone," Teak said.

"I don't think the others will see it that way. Especially his kind," Altia pointed up at Destan who was high in the rafters, focused on his climbing. "I mean why is he alone in the first place? He has an alliance. And by alliance, I mean the Careers are split down the middle. That means there's even more groups out there. We are the largest alliance, Teak. I'm just saying that worries me."

Teak understood where Altia was coming from but he didn't want to give that thought much room to breathe. He saw the cons of what they had going on but Teak considered the positives as being much more heavily weighted. It was a shame Altia couldn't see it that way. Teak was determined, when the Games started, to persuade her otherwise.

Before Teak could really say anything else, there was a gentle cough from above them, and Teak's stomach flipped at the eyes of Destan who was now focused on the two of them, descending the net.

"Hate to eavesdrop but you aren't exactly quiet," he said with a smile towards Altia.

"Is it common practice for your type to be by yourself when you have allies?" Altia said, crossing her arms. She didn't seem that scared of him. Teak was impressed.

The Career just laughed. "Rest assured, Twelve, when the Games start myself and my allies are going to be completely ready for what we've _trained_ for."

The emphasis on the fact he had trained made Teak feel even more uncomfortable. He wanted to go.

"You don't intimidate me," Altia said stubbornly.

"Maybe not alone, but I hope you haven't listened too much to what my deluded District partner had to say yesterday lunch time. Believe me – it won't work out well for you."

Sinta hadn't really talked much at all about the prospect of going after Chancellor. In fact, after the altercation between him, Sinta and Sheridan, she probably wanted to be as far away from him as possible. Teak didn't blame her. The boy was terrifying.

"I think we can make our own choices about what we listen to or don't listen to," Altia uncrossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Destan. "But thank you for your concern."

"Just wanting to check what the rest of you tributes are thinking of doing once the-"

"Teak, let's go," Altia interrupted.

Destan's lips curled into a snarl as Altia strutted off, leaving whatever Destan had to say unspoken. Teak looked at him and Destan glared back. He didn't want to be scared. He wished he could share Sheridan and Altia's steely confidence in the face of these trained tributes, but part of Teak thought it was stupid for them to even consider standing up to them.

He ran off after Altia.

For all the confidence he was beginning to feel in the presence of such a large group, there were still things that held Teak back. The fear he felt about his impending future being the harshest of all.

"Altia, wait!"

He ran after his ally, away from Destan.

 _The Games are only a few days away._

Teak swallowed his fear down and refused to let that stop him.

He had training to do.

* * *

 **Henley Pereira, 15 years old;  
District Five Female.**

* * *

As the three of them spent the last few hours of training together, Henley couldn't help but look at her new allies with worried thoughts.

Iva and Damon were nice people. Damon especially. Given where they were, in the Hunger Games, where the skills they could pick up and put together could mean the difference between life and death, Henley understood why they had approached her. It made sense.

But the part of Henley that had spent her entire life distancing herself from people because she always believed they only wanted her for what she could bring to the table, felt distant from them. Iva and Damon were slowly breaking down their walls towards each other and Henley couldn't help but keep hers up.

She had to remind herself that despite the anxiety she felt about her relationship with the two of them, that this was also the Games. Maybe keeping those walls up was a good thing. As soon as she'd managed to drill some sense into Archie, whacking him about with a cushion, her mentor had said so as well. _Keep your distance. Use your head. Play to your strengths._

Part of Henley, though, wanted those walls to break. She wanted to smile goofily like Damon. She wanted to slowly ease into a sense of comfort like Iva was with every word that Damon threw out there haphazardly.

It was all so confusing.

Iva and Damon had no idea what Henley had spent the whole time thinking and seemed very happy around her. Henley refused to let them see into her inner turmoil and smiled as they passed over the knife. "Feels weird, right?" Damon said.

Henley nodded. The cool metal ignited more fear inside Henley, but rather than the tearful mess she'd been on the train, she was finding her feet. The healer in her found this to go against every single instinct, but then again, they were in the Games as teenagers – this went against every instinct a kid was supposed to have.

Henley was learning to step outside her comfort zone for the sake of her own survival.

"Have you ever had to deal with stab wounds before?" Damon blurted out.

Iva gave him a look. _That_ look. Damon seemed familiar with it and just rolled his eyes with a laugh. Henley couldn't help but giggle. If she had to pick, she preferred Damon out of the two of them. Iva was a bit more standoffish which would have made Henley a hypocrite to say she disliked, but Damon reminded her of what Henley could be like if she let herself go just a little.

He was a reminder that even though they were in the Games, they could afford the chance to act their age and be the kids they were. Henley still wasn't sure of that, though. She couldn't get over the fact that only one of them could survive out of every single tribute in this room.

"It's okay Iva," Henley said. "And I'm still only really in my training period. I mean – I was. My mentor Marilyn kept all the grisly stuff for herself which I guess I appreciated at the time. Now as grim as it sounds, I almost wish I'd been exposed a bit more to some of that."

"I understand," Iva said with a solemn nod. "It's a bit twisted isn't it? Maybe seeing a bit more of the gruesome stuff would have actually benefitted you."

Henley looked at Iva and saw the kindness in her eyes, the soft, sad smile that played on her lips. _I can't spend my entire time holding back with them,_ Henley silently thought. _They've given me a chance. I have to give them one._

"We haven't got much time left, have we?" Damon said, interrupting Henley from her own thoughts. "Do we get to see each other again after training?"

"Only in passing really," Henley said.

Archie had filled her in about the entire process. They might walk past each other, or have time to sit opposite one another tomorrow before their private session, or on the hovercraft heading towards the Arena, but this was really it.

Henley realised looking at Iva and Damon that they hadn't really talked much about the actual Arena. About what they would do when the gong sounded and the Games began. It frightened Henley giving that thought much focus, but if they weren't going to be the two to discuss it, then maybe Henley had to take the initiative and think things through a bit more logically.

"Can you believe it's in three days?" Iva said, shaking her head.

Henley knew now was as good a time as any. "Speaking of which – did you two ever discuss what your strategy is going into the Games?"

A look went between the two of them. Henley couldn't help but feel distant because she was the last addition and they'd had longer getting to know each other. She longed for that closeness, but also didn't want it. The whole thing was messy.

"I'll take that as a no," Henley said, laughing. "Maybe we should talk about it?"

"I vote we just run. Don't even risk it," Iva said.

Damon nodded fervently. "Forget the Cornucopia."

Henley understood their fear. She had the same terror in her gut as well. But they weren't being realistic and a part of her was frustrated at their lack of willingness to at least get _something._

"Can I ask you – what was it again that caught your interest about me?" Henley said. "Why did you ask me to be your ally?"

Iva looked confused but answered anyway. "Your ability as a healer. And the fact you seem like a nice person."

 _A nice person._ Henley felt a flutter in her chest but ignored it.

She nodded. "I can't help you if I don't have at least some supplies. We might get sponsors, or we might not. I'm not saying we run straight into the thick of it all, but we can't just high-tail it and leave immediately. We have to be realistic."

Again, Iva and Damon shared a look between them. She could see the fear in Damon's eyes at the prospect of what they would have to do, and Iva's grim nod of her head as she tried to calm him.

"I see your point," she said.

Damon cleared his throat. "I suppose we do need some supplies."

Henley was glad she was getting through to them. She didn't want to march on in and start to take over, but she couldn't help but see this situation for what it was and what they would have to do. Maybe Damon and Iva did have the deeper relationship and could afford the niceties that came alongside it, but as much as Henley was envious of it, if she had the grounded mindset then maybe that was actually the better option.

If she wanted to win – and there was never any doubt in her mind that she did – Henley would see her fight in the Games for what it had to be. _Play to your strengths,_ that had been Archie's blundering advice. She'd managed to convince him to help her and Teak, she had now found a decent alliance, and if Henley was the only person with the stomach to fight all her natural instincts and do what had to be done, then so be it.

She looked at Iva and Damon with sadness in her heart but a grim determination.

"In and out," Henley said. "Let's get what we need and go."

Whether that would work or not, she had no idea, but they had to try something.

The Games were beginning soon.

There was no point in pretending otherwise.

* * *

 **Maisley Corvac, 14 years old;  
District Six Female.**

* * *

One hour to go.

Maisley stood with her alliance, watching the clock tick on by, counting the minutes down until training was over. Her little group that she'd somehow managed to put together, a group that looked at her with trust and loyalty, were busy filling in the final hour they had properly together.

The last few days of the Capitol were a whirl-wind, Breanna had said. She had to relish the time they had left.

"C'mon Ponche, I'll race you." Carys had herself arched on the track that ran around the entire Training Hall's upper-half. She looked at Ponche, trying to convince him to join her. "It'll do you some good."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ponche said.

Carys groaned, laughed, and Maisley watched it with a smile on her face. For everything that had happened in the Capitol so far, every little string she was trying to knot together for her own betterment, she _liked_ these people. They weren't friends, not by any means. Maisley knew it would be silly to call them that, but they were close enough that she genuinely felt she could depend on them.

That had been her entire motivation going into training. Find someone that would fill the gaps that she couldn't herself. Maisley wasn't stupid. She was the youngest. The shortest.

Being the richest didn't matter. Daddy's money could only go so far in life.

"Could I have a word, Mais'?"

She looked over at Castor who was smiling at her. Ponche and Carys were too busy bickering about Carys' desire to have a few laps round the hall. Maisley knew Ponche would eventually cave. He watched her, mostly unsure of himself and why Maisley had wandered over in the first place, but Maisley knew he was a good guy deep down.

He wanted his allies to like him.

"Sure," Maisley said. "Do you mean in private?"

Castor nodded and Maisley's stomach flipped just a little. Honestly, she was worried about her allies – worried about every other tribute. Not because she doubted their loyalty, but loyalty could only go so far in the Games. Maisley had pictured herself trying to fight through honest means and couldn't see herself besting anyone.

It was why she'd had to think about approaching these Games with a different mindset. Spin the web – like she had done back in Six, telling her fanciful tales – in a grounded, realistic way. The stories of a little rich girl could now be the tales she had to tell to survive.

"Everything okay?" Maisley asked.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Castor said, leaning against the wall fixture close to where they stood. "I've just been thinking about something I've wanted to ask for a while. Or not ask – say I guess. With little time left, there's not much point in waiting any longer."

 _Oh god – what?_

"I'm always here to listen, Castor."

"I know, Maisley," Castor said, smiling. "You know – I've never picked up a bow myself before." _Oh god._ "But I'm pretty sure even with my shitty aim I'd be able to at least point it in the right direction."

Maisley knew what he was hinting at and immediately she felt as if she wanted to run away. All the pieces of her protection shattering without a second to reap the rewards. But Castor was just smiling. And as he nodded, sighing, something told Maisley he wasn't angry.

"Look, Maisley, I get it. You're using the only real strength you see yourself in possession of to do something that might help you. It's why I didn't say anything the second I saw you skitter on over to me and Ponche. I didn't see any need to."

Maisley thought about what she would have done in his position. She wasn't manipulating him in any drastically evil sort of way – not in the way of wanting to strip him of security only to backstab him. She'd shot that arrow because she'd simply wanted a way into conversation with two people she'd thought might see her for the young girl she was and feel content with allowing the weakest tribute in with them.

Ponche didn't seem as convinced, but again he clung to every word Castor said. And Carys was a fireball. She was probably the strongest of their whole alliance.

"Why?" Maisley asked, her voice meeker than usual. "Why aren't you mad?"

"Because you're a kid. We're all kids. You're the Mayor's daughter and you used the only thing you think you can bring to the table to help you in the Games," Castor said, placing a hand on Maisley's shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. "You ain't a bad person for wanting to survive, Mais'. And I don't think it's such a bad thing knowing who you are and what you feel you lack and wanting to surround yourself in something that makes you feel stronger."

Maisley felt everything that had been building up since her name was called on that stage, the years of expectation put upon her by her father, every lie she'd told to simply stand out from the crowd; it all fell apart and she felt the warmth and the wetness round her eyes before she could stop herself.

Looking strong and confident didn't matter so much to Maisley anymore. The hand on her shoulder, the smile on Castor's face, Maisley couldn't help it – she couldn't stop herself from crying.

"I have no idea what I'm doing. Not a clue," Maisley struggled to get the words out, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Castor's smile made her smile. And for once, it actually felt good to cry. "I know that the Games aren't the place for someone like me. But I'm trying. I really am. I don't want to go."

"I know, Mais'."

"I don't want to die," Maisley bowed her head and sniffled, watching a teardrop roll down her nose and splatter against the ground. "I'm scared, Castor."

"Well it's a good job you found us then, isn't it?"

She looked up and felt the ruffle of her hair. Castor beamed at her and Maisley sniffled again, trying to compose herself. It was good letting it all out. She didn't feel so stuck. So contained.

"I don't want the others to see me cry," Maisley said. "I look stupid."

"You look like a kid who's been told they have to go into a death match and kill other kids. I don't think it's stupid at all."

"Just don't tell the others?" Maisley asked.

Castor nodded. "Let it be our little secret. You don't need to lie to me, Maisley. Whether you had dad's money or not, sponsors or not, we're a team. I've got your back."

Part of Maisley, the Maisley she'd been trying to be since the train journey, knew she shouldn't confess to what she was about to say. But something about Castor, something about the fact she'd just cried, it told her it wouldn't matter. She could say it anyway.

"My dad didn't say anything," Maisley said. "He wasn't even allowed to say goodbye."

"I know, Maisley," Castor replied. "I didn't buy it for a second."

Maisley reminded herself that Castor did not care. She reminded herself that he wasn't pretending to be cool with her. She'd grown up in a life lavished in lies and luxury and it felt strange feeling like someone could actually be genuine with her.

That was why she'd never even bothered trying to be honest with other people.

For the sake of her survival, Maisley was prepared to keep it up, smile and act the confident girl she was trying to be, but a burden had been taken off her shoulders in the last ten minutes.

She wasn't ready for the Games by any means, but she felt like she had all the right tools to help her get as far as she could.

It was all she could really ask for. A chance at making it out alive.

* * *

 **Hey all another shout-out for an SYOT that's out there! Please if you have the time go and submit to Josephm611 – check his profile for all the details.**

 **Question/s!:**

 _ **What's your favourite element of a SYOT? It could be anything that goes into what makes one.**_

 _ **Favourite thing that's happened in the training chapters of this story?**_

 **So. After six chapters and every single tribute getting a POV – training is finished! It was hella fun to write, lots of alliances being made with interactions here and there. I think what I enjoyed so much about writing it was trying to infuse little cameos into POVs even if the tributes weren't necessarily allies. You got to see the majority of tributes more than just within their POV which I appreciated doing for the sake of making this cast the most fully fleshed out of any SYOT I've written.**

 **Also I realised that before the Games, I will have written 72 POVs. And that's… a lot. Lmao. I drop POVs for the Games anyway so – if you read Lonely Hour and Hideaway you're familiar with how I'm going to format the Games.**

 **Until next time folks!**


	24. Thorns

**Chapter Twenty-Four.**

* * *

 **Private Gamemaker Sessions.**

* * *

 **Albie Mathison, 18 years old;  
District Three Female.**

* * *

She yawned deeply, stirring the porridge oats in her bowl.

Albie felt exhausted. The past three days had finally caught up with her, the momentous whirlwind that she'd gone through so far. It had been a lot. She'd tried to cram in as many different stations as possible because Albie felt completely unprepared for this, but at the same time, she'd tried to build a closer bond with her two allies.

Naturally, she felt closer to Armina, but there was something about Shual she saw more of a contender in. It upset her almost that the person she felt closest with was actually the person she thought was the weakest of their group. The whole mindset she was trying to have here in the Capitol left her feeling angry at herself.

A door opened from somewhere at the side and a loud grumble reverberated through into the dining room. Albie, as if by instinct, rolled her eyes at the aggressive stomping that finally revealed itself to belong to Nikos. He was most definitely not a morning person. Albie wasn't sure he was much of an anything person.

"Good morning," Albie forced herself to say, maintaining at least some level of politeness with her District partner. "Have a good sleep?"

Nikos stared at her then pointed to his eyes. They were shot red and puffy. She wanted to laugh but contained herself enough to just stare back at him as he sat down, tugging at his neck where the training outfit hugged tightly.

Albie hated the way it seemed to vacuum seal her entire body. It left her feeling imperfect and part of her couldn't beat out the voice of her mother telling her that those imperfections were the only thing letting her down. She still felt totally overwhelmed by everything that training had shown her – if anything it had just demonstrated to her how little she actually knew of the things that mattered most if you were a tribute in the Hunger Games.

So much for the years of learning she'd thought was so precious to her back in Three.

"You've got five minutes," Shiloh, Albie's mentor said, entering the room. "So quickly eat your breakfast."

Three was lucky and had enough Victors for the two of them to have their own mentor. Albie liked Shiloh – she was a reminder that it was actually possible for someone from Three to make it home alive. Nikos didn't like his mentor but then again, she didn't like him so it was a mutual distaste for one another.

"Are you ready for today, Nikos?" Albie asked.

"Hm?" he looked at her, biting into a bit of toast. "I guess – I'll do my best, I suppose."

"Those sponsors will be looking out for your scores," Shiloh said. "Do your best to use whatever you learnt over the past three days."

Albie nodded, her stomach flipping nervously. As the five minutes finally ran out, Nikos stomped over to the elevator and Albie did her best to rid her mind of the anxious thoughts running through. She wanted to impress – she really did. Part of her hated the idea that she still needed that stamp of approval, part of her wanted to continue breaking out the mold she'd been set into, but she couldn't.

The cost might mean her death, and she'd do anything to make it out of this alive.

"Albie."

As she stood up, she turned back at the serious voice of her mentor and stared at Shiloh whose face had creased up.

"Everything ok?"

Shiloh shook her head. "Are you sure you can't take him with you?" She gestured over to an impatient Nikos. "You might stand a better chance with him by your side."

Albie had been over this so many times already with her mentor. She shook her head adamantly and tried a placating smile. "He's too much of a loose cannon, Shiloh. He'll only hold me back."

"But he's strong."

"And sometimes strength doesn't make up for a lack of control," Albie said firmly. "I have my alliance and I'm very happy with them. I'll see you later."

She strode over to the elevator, ignoring Shiloh's sigh and Nikos' curious stare as the doors closed around them and they stood in silence, descending to the Training Hall.

As the doors opened to reveal two benches either side of the corridor, she heard Nikos clear his throat and before she stepped out, she looked at him.

He didn't quite meet her eyes. "Good luck, I guess."

Albie nodded, smiling. "You too."

Nikos didn't glance at any of the other waiting tributes as he marched on over to where District Three were supposed to be seated. Albie on the other hand could see that most tributes had ignored the designated area for their district and were sitting near allies, speaking in hushed tones and staring up at Albie as she walked past them.

Shual and Armina were already together. They smiled at her as she took a seat next to Shual.

"Nervous?" Armina asked.

Albie felt butterflies in her stomach and nodded. "I feel sick," she confessed. "And I don't like it."

"At least the side-effects of those damn berries have gone. Could you imagine me being midway demonstrating something and suddenly needing the toilet?" Armina giggled. "Have we decided what scores we are aiming for?"

"Something average – in the middle," Shual said quickly. "There's no point pretending we will get anything that great but we did our best to learn some stuff together, right?"

He knew that he had spent less time with the two of them but Albie appreciated the fact that didn't seem to faze him. He was trying his best to find his feet with the two girls and Albie enjoyed the thought processes that he brought to their little group.

The three of them continued to whisper to one another as names were called out over the intercom. _Linnea. Chancellor. Neviya. Roarke._

When she heard her name, every ounce of strength that Albie had tried to cover herself with seemed to shed and for a moment she thought she might have thrown up. Armina put her hand over Albie's, Shual gave her an encouraging smile, and for their sakes as well as her own, she stood up shakily and nodded to herself.

"I'll see you later," she said.

They both wished her luck and as she passed Nikos, he gave her a smile that actually seemed genuine. She smiled back and briskly walked into the room, patting down a crease that was in her training uniform, determined to look perfect for the Gamemakers.

She heard her mother's voice in her head as she stood in front of them, and something, some small part of the Mathison family that had prided itself on their position in society, forced her to face the Gamemakers with a polite, respectful smile as she nodded at the central woman in front of them all.

"Thank you for seeing me," Albie said. "I hope you enjoy what I have to show."

 _Let's get this over with._

* * *

 **Destan Moreau, 18 years old;  
District Four Male.**

* * *

He looked at all of the tributes around him and realised none of them could meet his gaze. On the outside, he wore a smile, cocky some might call it, but on the inside he couldn't subdue the nerves that rattled his bones and chilled his blood.

With Linnea and Neviya now gone, Britta had returned to her seat next to him, adamantly staring at anything but Destan. He felt uncomfortable – not just about today and ensuring he got a good score for both his own chances but the image he was trying to project, but about everything that had gone on so far.

He had been taught how to wear the image of many different people. He had been more buoyant and cheerful on the first day around everyone but Chancellor, and around him he had been quieter and less dramatic. Now all those images were blurring into one and he realised that all he seemed to be currently doing was strutting about the place trying to exert the dominance he could feel slipping through his fingers.

He'd done what he did because he knew he was like Roarke and every non-Career tribute in this entire Games. He was frightened of Chancellor. But rather than allow that fear to manifest into anything, he'd distracted himself from it and tried to put himself on a pedestal above the rest.

Control his own fear by switching things up. Flipping the entire Games on their head.

He didn't feel in control anymore. He didn't feel confident. He didn't feel anything but a frightening sense of reality that had stung as much as Neviya's fist.

"Um," he found his voice and was surprised at how disconnected it felt, how unsure of itself it sounded. "Britta?"

She didn't respond to his voice. Didn't so much as flinch or anything.

"Britta?"

He didn't want to annoy her. Away from their allies, away from Chancellor especially, he found himself growing exhausted with everything. He just wanted to talk.

"Please, Britta," he said.

"If you're about to comment on how tight your outfit is, then I don't want to hear it," Britta said, not meeting his gaze. "I said what I said because I thought we were allies and it was playful. Now you're just a dick. So excuse yourself from this conversation if you don't mind."

"Hand on heart, I'm not here to start shit. I just wanted to ask you something."

He could see Britta looking at him now out the corner of her eye. She sighed – dramatically, of course – and turned her face to look at him. "What could you possibly want to ask?"

The rest of the tributes were focused on their own conversations. It made Destan feel a bit more comfortable in asking what he was about to ask. Maybe he was growing tired of the image he was trying to project but he still knew it was important the others feared him somewhat. He needed that if he was going to get anywhere in the Games.

"Why did you do what you did? About Chancellor, I mean."

Britta's eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you mean why did I do it? I did what had to be done – you're out there swaggering around like a fucking peacock with its feathers up trying to scare us and everyone else. Well it isn't going to go like that."

"I only act the way I act because-" Destan paused, he wasn't about to confess to being scared, "-because of Chancellor."

"You are the one that tore our alliance apart. I don't need you to sit here and try and make me pity you. We could have joined together and taken him out and gotten along just fine for as long as it possibly could have lasted." Britta's voice wasn't loud, but it was harsh. It bit into Destan and left him sinking into his chair. "Now back the fuck off and don't talk to me. We're done."

 _Britta Somerset._

When her name rang out, she stood up and marched off without even looking back at Destan. In her absence, the girl from Five – Harley? Henley? – stared at Destan. He glared in return and sneered, lounging back in his chair.

 _Maybe I did royally fuck things up, but it is what it is. No going back._

He thought about the fact that Chancellor was still the strongest one here, no doubt about to be reflected in the scores, and he had to remain content with the fact that he was his ally. Now was the time for him to demonstrate his strength – no more words, no more theatrics, no more twisting things to his advantage. It was the one thing he actually was the most nervous about. Ironic in a sense that using a weapon was what gave him the most anxiety. Not because he had any qualms about hurting or killing, but because he doubted his actual skill compared to everyone else.

He was scared of getting a low score. He was scared of being shown up.

He was scared of being seen as the true Destan Moreau.

Ten or so minutes later, Destan's name was called out and he confidently marched into the room, surveying his surroundings and standing in the central spot, gazing over at the Gamemakers. He was the last Career – the last real show for them.

They all looked at him and he cleared his throat, subduing the nerves under the suave cockiness he'd tried to show during training.

"Destan Moreau," he said. "And what a pleasure it is to be here."

 _Ugh,_ he thought. _Kiss ass._

With his back turned to the Gamemakers, he closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and opened them again. He did as much as he could – he threw spears that connected with their target, he threw knives and used a sword to completely obliterate a few dummies.

Though it wasn't perfect, he still knew that he could do a lot more than everyone else bar the Careers. Although he knew that he'd pale in comparison to what Chancellor could do, that didn't really matter. He had to try and find solace in the fact that maybe he was weaker than his ally, but he was still stronger than the majority.

Anything to make him feel confident again.

When the bell rang for him to stop, Destan returned to the centre of the room.

He looked at the Head Gamemaker as she stared back at him and Destan couldn't help himself. He heard himself speaking before he could stop.

"I promise you a good show in the Games," he said, beaming at them all. "My District partner and the girls from One and Two, even the boy from Two, they're way too chipper and happy-go-lucky. They don't have what it takes. I thought switching things around and instilling a little drama might make things a bit more entertaining for you, and for the Capitol. So that's what I've done. I look forward to showing you what I can do in the Arena."

He felt himself shaking as he left and entered the elevator again. Hopefully it had been enough to at least match Britta and the girls. He couldn't be below them. He couldn't have Chancellor see him as a weak link.

His image meant everything to Destan.

He'd do anything to keep it up.

* * *

 **Castor Velboa, 17 years old;  
District Eight Male.**

* * *

Castor gave Maisley a thumbs-up as she stood up.

"Wish me luck," she said, leaning sideways to where Carys and Ponche sat in their designated seats. "See you guys later."

"Break a leg!" Castor chimed after her, to which she laughed merrily and disappeared into the Training Hall.

Castor peered forwards around Iva who sat next to him. His eyes settled on his other two allies and they looked over at him. Ponche had a worrisome look on his face, fear in his eyes. Carys on the other hand tried to smile back at Castor but it was a feeble attempt, her lip shaking and then settling into a more disgruntled look that he'd come to familiarise himself with.

He gestured with his hands to the empty seat next to him, then pointed at the two of them.

Ponche shook his head. _Bless him,_ Castor thought. He'd tried his best to be as encouraging of an ally as he possibly could with Ponche, but it was only slowly breaking his walls down. Carys on the other hand shrugged her shoulders and moved over to the seat vacant next to Castor and fell into it.

"She alright?" Carys asked.

"Who Maisley?" Castor said to which Carys nodded in response. "Yeah – just a bit nervous. Aren't we all?"

"She's a fighter. I'm sure she'll do just fine. She wrangled in me in somehow."

"To which I'm glad she did," Castor said earnestly.

It was true. Ponche was a good lad but he was no skilled warrior. In fact, if anything he seemed to have gotten less competent as the days went by. Maisley had a lot going for her – she hadn't fooled Castor in the slightest. Her silver tongue was a useful asset but it wasn't exactly great in the face of a charging bull, spear raised to skewer him.

Carys although lacking technique, seemed reasonably able on her feet. Castor had tried his best too. Out of their alliance, they were definitely the "muscle." He inwardly laughed at the thought.

Carys sighed deeply and rested her chin in her hands. "Do you reckon if I took a huge dump on the floor they'll appreciate my courage?" She laughed and awkwardly pulled at the fabric round her leg. "I have no idea what I'm going to do in there. I want to impress them but the other half of me hates the fact that I'm clinging to a silly number."

Castor hummed in agreement. At the end of the day, he could skip around all heartily and do his best to put on a brave, happy front but he was bummed about the entire situation. Scared, if anything. Maisley's confession yesterday had only whipped up his fear even further until it seemed threatening to his resolve.

Maisley had a good head on her shoulders, though. It felt strange looking at the youngest competitor this year, someone he genuinely liked and wanted to look after, and feel a slight unease about them. Not in the sense that he didn't trust her, but she had been thinking in the right mindset right from the very beginning.

Castor hadn't, not really. _Maybe I need to start,_ he thought, looking at Carys continue to pull at her knee and flinch as the material snapped back. _Maisley can't be the only one who sees this situation for what it is._

"Why do you reckon he doesn't want to sit with us?" Carys said, gesturing towards Ponche.

Castor was snapped out of his thoughts and looked over at their other ally, too preoccupied in his own mind to notice them looking. Castor felt a twinge of sadness in his heart at the sight of him. "I guess he's just scared," Castor answered honestly. "Aren't we all?"

It didn't seem like Carys to be the type to confess to that sort of emotion, but she nodded her head miserably and leant back in her chair, resting her head against the wall. "Two days left."

Castor's heart pounded suddenly and harshly. "Two days."

 _Fuck._

Time seemed to flash by and he barely noticed that his name had been called when Carys jolted upright, nudging him in the arm. He looked at her and then saw Ponche gaze over, offering a small smile that he could muster up as an act of encouragement.

"I guess it's me," Castor said, standing up. _Okay, breathe._ "Go and see if he's alright. He might need the company."

Carys nodded and offered him good luck as he left, striding into the room, lathering on as much false confidence as he could muster up for the Gamemakers. As he took his place in the centre of the room, he could see how disinterested they looked on his arrival, but he tried his best not to let that dissuade him from his desire to try and do something that could be construed as impressive.

He needed somewhat of a good score. For his alliance. _For me._

"Nice to meet you all," he said with a smile and a nod. "I'm Castor and I'm from-"

"Yes yes," the Head Gamemaker interrupted harshly, waving her hand. "Proceed."

 _Well fuck you too,_ he thought, turning on the spot feeling slightly offended. Castor saw a trainer standing off to the side, near a mat on the floor.

He swiftly walked on over and smiled at the man. "Are we allowed to use you guys to demonstrate some stuff on?"

He ignored how weird that question sounded and politely smiled as the man nodded and readied himself on the mat, arms up, feet separated apart. With the first swipe of his hand, the man quickly brought his own hands up to block it and proceeded to push himself forwards, bringing his foot out.

Castor was doing better at being as observant as he could in these fights, not just in what was going on around him. He dodged the attempt and knocked the man's arm away, side-swiping his hand and hitting the man in the shoulder with his fist.

Castor had no idea how he looked right now. It was how it continued for the next eight or so minutes. He managed to bring the man to the ground, he was then taken down quite quickly, and it seemed an even split by the time the bell tolled.

He was panting, completely out of breath as he returned to the centre and bowed his head. "A pleasure doing business with you," he said, chuckling to himself as he left promptly.

Castor hoped for the best but didn't want to be too optimistic.

As long as they had an average score, he could deal with that. Carys had a good point about all this kiss-assery for a simple number. It didn't sit right in his stomach, but if Maisley could see this for what it was and be willing to swallow pride for the sake of survival, then Castor had to do the exact same thing.

At the end of the day, he was in it for himself. He would protect his alliance for however long it could last but he wanted to be the best of them all, he wanted to be the one to make it the furthest.

He wanted to win.

* * *

 **Ponche Garland, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Male.**

* * *

If Ponche could have one wish, it would be to restart training, go back three days and try again.

Only if he could do that, he'd focus a lot more on actually bettering himself and not being so caught up in the alliance with Castor, Maisley and Carys.

He had nothing against them all, not even Maisley really, but he couldn't help but feel like he'd let himself down in front of the Gamemakers. It wasn't as if he believed that Maisley, nor Castor, nor Carys were unbelievably strong at what they could do, but he wanted to be able to hold his own in their alliance.

He wanted to be seen.

"Oh my lord it's starting!"

Ponche looked up at the chirpy voice of Xylonius, their frilly Escort who was decked out in plush purple feathers. He patted Sheridan on her knee and if looks could kill, Xylonius would be the first casualty of this year's Games. Ponche tried to smile back at him but he gave up as he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He was tired. Nervous. Worried. Scared. Ponche just wanted everything to go back to normal.

"Xylo', it's been on for the last fifteen minutes," Cyphas, Ponche's mentor chuckled. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, I don't give a damn about the rest of them. I want to see the real stars of the show. My gorgeous District Eleven."

"Go us," Sheridan said, rolling her eyes and winking at Ponche.

He wanted to smirk back but couldn't bring himself to as Sheridan's face flashed on the screen followed by a small bit of commentary and a _6_ that circled her grumpy looking face. "Could have taken a better picture," Sheridan said sarcastically, though when Ponche looked over she seemed quite content with her score and she relaxed into the silk cushions.

Xylonius exploded into raucous applause as Ponche gave her a polite nod of his head as his own face appeared on the television screen.

He had seen Maisley receive the lowest score so far, with Castor next and then Carys. Ponche hoped he could do just as well as at least Castor. He enjoyed their company as much as he knew he could show it better. And Sheridan with a _6!_ It was impressive.

Two seconds later, and the _5_ revolved around Ponche's face as he continued staring at the screen as it morphed into the shape of Altia Wright's head. Sheridan congratulated him as did Cyphas. Xylionus was a dim man but he gave him a well-done all the same. He was surrounded by praise but Ponche couldn't tell exactly how he felt.

 _Good? Bad? Disinterested?_

He had tied with Castor and that made him feel at least somewhat pleased. It meant he wasn't the weakest and wasn't the strongest either. He floated somewhere in the middle. But part of Ponche was also tired of that – the stagnancy that came with being viewed as _normal._ He neither shone for being abysmal nor stood out for being above average. Ponche's score reflected how he had always felt: simply there.

"I'm gonna go and sit by the window," Ponche quickly said, interrupting Xylonius' flapping about as he pointed at Damon's head that was now on the screen.

He moved before anyone else could say anything and quickly took a comfortable seat on the bench fitted into the far wall, where a huge open window exposed the beauty of the Capitol bathed under starlight. For all his distaste for this city and what they meant for people like Ponche and where he came from, he could not deny the fact it was a stunning place.

The noise behind him simply became background as he nestled his chin into his knees and wrapped the throw that was draped over the back of the bench.

 _Maisley, Castor and Carys._ He still didn't trust the littlest of his allies but he didn't dislike her either. He knew she was simply doing what had to be done for where they were. Castor, on the other hand, epitomised everything he had always wanted to be and yet had never pushed himself to become. And then there was their newest ally – he had no idea what to think of Carys, but she was a spitfire and had proved herself today.

He had simply coasted by.

 _Is that how the Capitol will view me? Nothing but floating through – someone not to place their bets on?_

He felt the sadness in his gut and tried to fight it down when footsteps interrupted his thoughts.

"Care for some company?"

When Ponche looked over his shoulder, he saw Sheridan looking at him. She was another one with a fiery attitude but they had known each other long enough, been forced into such a fast-paced situation, that Ponche knew Sheridan was slowly allowing herself to open up around him. He was glad he had someone like Sheridan with him.

"Of course," Ponche said, shuffling to the left to give room for Sheridan to sit.

"I know what it's like wanting to be left alone," Sheridan said. "Makes me feel a bit invasive if anything. But I can't listen to him anymore and a part of me doesn't want to bury myself under my duvet and go to sleep either."

Ponche nodded his head. He wasn't sure what to say really. He was glad for the company but had no words that would come to mind.

Of all the people he could have been with, he knew Sheridan would understand that. In fact, she didn't say anything for the next five minutes and the silence was comforting, not awkward. The noise that filled the gaps came from their mentors and Escort discussing the scores and the Capitolites below living their lives for all its deluded luxury.

"A five isn't bad," Sheridan finally said. "Don't let it get you down."

It wasn't bad. Ponche knew that. He wasn't going to let himself be hung up by a number when really they meant nothing. Someone with a 6 or a 7 could go down just as fast at the beginning of the Games. He knew, in the chaos that the start created, luck played a huge part.

Being in the right or wrong place could mean the difference between life or death.

"I know," Ponche replied. "Congratulations on your six, though. You must be proud."

Sheridan shrugged her shoulders. "Don't care what they think about me, really. They aren't who's important."

"Suppose you're right."

Ponche found himself yawning and stretched his arms out, leaning back against the window and meeting Sheridan's gaze.

"Two days," he continued. "Can you believe it?"

"Two days," Sheridan copied, shaking her head. "It's insane."

Ponche and Sheridan had nothing left to say to each other as time continued to slip on by, counting down their hours until the Games. She left him to go to bed after another ten minutes of sitting by the window and soon after, Ponche himself yawned again and left the room.

Sleep was really the only escape he could find and he knew when the Games started, sleep would become something near impossible to experience again properly.

He would make the most of this tiny sense of normalcy. The only thing that could still feel normal for the short time left.

The _5_ he received fell to the back of his mind as his consciousness slipped away and Ponche relaxed into the only place he could leave this dark reality.

As midnight struck, it marked the moment where they had one more day left.

One more sleep.

And for some – their last sleep.

* * *

 **Wrote this all yesterday but since I'm such a lovely person I waited until today to update :)**

 **The UK announces next week how schools are going to be reopening... ffs.**

 **All training scores are on the blog. I cannot put myself through having POVs dedicated to just sat on a sofa listening to 24 scores being read. It does no benefit to these tributes and I feel bad for whoever gets that POV. So yeah – go check the blog for the scores!**

 **Little format change, instead of two chapters for interviews I will be doing one, which means the POVs for Interviews Pt 2 will now go to launch. That means there's only two more Capitol chapters left!**

 **Vote on the poll if you haven't already. Thanks guys!**


	25. Tinseltown

**Chapter Twenty-Five.**

* * *

 **Interviews.**

* * *

 **Roarke Lumally, 18 years old;  
District Two Male.**

* * *

"And you're going to do what?"

Roarke looked sullenly up at Neviya's mentor, Tilda. His own hadn't arrived this morning leaving Tilda to prepare both of them, and with it now nearing the evening of the interviews, Roarke and Neviya had no choice but to be together as Tilda stood before them.

"I'm going to smile," Roarke said, frowning.

Tilda nodded her head. "No more of this moping around, Roarke." Her eyes fell on Neviya and they narrowed. "You too. Look – it was fun while it lasted, I'm sure. But boo hoo you fell out because of some baby-killer from One and the idiot from Four. Roarke, you've made your decision and heaven-knows-why you made the wrong one, but it is what it is."

Roarke looked at Neviya. She looked back.

"Tomorrow the Games start," Roarke said to her, watching her shoulders lift up as she exhaled harshly. "Tilda is right. It was great getting to know you, Neviya."

For the first time in what felt a long time, Neviya actually smiled in his direction. It wasn't the bright smile he'd come to know Neviya for, but Roarke wasn't exactly jumping off walls either. The reality of what tomorrow was had finally begun to sink in.

It was every man and woman for themselves.

"Good luck tonight," Neviya said. "Make sure you smile, Roarke. You have a lovely smile."

Tilda seemed content with the sudden change between the two of them and as they recapped exactly what to expect for tonight, there was a bell that rang, signalling that it was time to leave. Roarke felt his stomach flip nervously but did his best to repress that and smother himself in the confidence that he knew he had.

The _8_ from last night was sour in his mouth. The lowest of all the Careers. It only cemented his own self-doubt about his actual ability in what mattered most as a Career. He could be all fun and games but when push came to shove, a weapon was what counted. An _8_ was better than nearly every other tribute – but they weren't Careers.

The two of them gave Tilda a polite wave as they entered the elevator and it whisked them downwards to the lobby. There, they were escorted by Peacekeepers that flanked Roarke and Neviya, intimidating in their uniform with visors pulled down to cover their faces. Roarke and Neviya had nothing to say to each other. Both were nervous. Roarke wanted to be sick.

It took five minutes for him to finally be shoved into a small room, away from Neviya. He didn't have a chance to say goodbye but judging by the determined look in her eye, she had definitely switched on game-mode. Roarke had to do the same. He sat down in the chair and looked at the mirror in front of him. Whilst he knew that he looked good, he'd never really put much stock in his appearance. There were better things to concern himself with in life.

"Roarke-y, you look a treat."

The voice belonged to his effervescent Head Stylist: Beverly. She kissed both his cheeks and clapped her hands together, pulling a bit of his hair upwards and letting it fall. "We're going to cut this just a little. A snip here, a snip there and voila!"

"Whatever you can do to make me look great out there," Roarke said, smiling at the woman. She meant well and Roarke didn't have it in him to be rude to her shallow dramatics. "It's all about that final impression. Especially given my score. I need something that's going to make me pop."

It was true. With the lowest score of the Careers, this interview could secure wavering sponsors, or send them to someone else. The pageantry of it all had surprisingly not been something Roarke had actually enjoyed. The Chariots had been entertaining but at the same time it had been Neviya that had made it so much fun.

He didn't have her anymore. It was him and him alone fighting his corner. He couldn't depend on a single other person. Unless Beverly counted, and to be fair, the outfit she put him in could make all the difference.

"Now hear me out baby," Beverly said, pausing dramatically. "I'm thinking … glitter."

His stomach sunk.

"Glitter?"

She squealed. "Everyone loves glitter!"

 _Do they?_ Roarke half-smiled and felt in the pit of his stomach the reality of tomorrow edging its way once again through his body. He wondered what Chancellor and Destan thought of his score from yesterday. Knowing Chancellor, he'd never thought him strong anyway, so it probably didn't make much difference. But Destan was really the catalyst in all of this. It was too late to back out now – but he was definitely the weakest link.

"Whatever you think is best," Roarke said. "You're the expert."

"That I am, honey."

What was probably only ten or so minutes seemed to drag on for an hour. Roarke wasn't kidding himself – he really did not care about his appearance. Now it seemed to be the only thing that mattered in this weird bubble universe he was about to enter for the next few hours. He was finding it uncomfortable as his hair was cut, adjustments were made to the clothes she draped him with, make-up was applied, and of course … _glitter._

He coughed and a bit of sparkle fell from his lips.

"See!" Beverly squawked. "Beautiful on the inside too."

Roarke didn't feel like it. A week ago, he did. He felt better than he had done his whole life. There was the overbearing nature of what he had wanted to do – volunteering for the Games to prove something to himself and to everyone else – but that had always felt second nature to his true self. His smiles here now felt fake. His loyalty to Neviya shattered completely because the fear over Chancellor, Destan and the idea of dying left him shaken and nervous.

The stage might have once been his element, but as Beverly clapped her hands and declared him finished, the nausea in his stomach nearly overwhelmed him entirely.

The door opened, Roarke was rushed out, and as a tribute from Two, he knew he didn't have long to wait.

The world was about to see him. In Beverly's eyes, a new and improved Roarke Lumally.

In Roarke's own eyes: a disappointing version of himself.

* * *

 **Britta Somerset, 18 years old;  
District Four Female.**

* * *

Britta groaned uncomfortably and pulled at her costume.

"It's literally tucked right up there," Britta complained. "Everyone will be able to see it."

Destan couldn't help but laugh. "And what a sight it'll be."

"No one asked you," Britta said over her shoulder, flipping her hair and enjoying the splutter as it went right into Destan's face.

The interviews had been, and still were, one of the Britta's most favourite parts about the whole Games. It had been one hell of a journey getting to this point and Britta couldn't believe she'd only been in the Capitol for a few days. It felt like a lifetime since she'd last seen District Four.

But for all that had happened, Britta was enjoying herself. She'd found two good friends, made a couple of enemies, and impressed herself with the _9_ she'd received. It wasn't as high as Neviya or Chancellor, but it was still something.

Britta edged her way up the line, shouldering the large boy from Three out of the way and stood behind Neviya. He growled at her but Britta just laughed and ignored it. She was doing her best to try and stay as focused as her allies were, and Britta knew that tomorrow everything was about to change, but Britta couldn't really see past the fact that she was still in the Capitol.

There was still so much to take in.

"Psst," Britta whispered in Neviya's ear, making her jump. Her ginger hair slapped Britta in the face and she just giggled. "Nice outfit."

Neviya's nose wrinkled. "It's like the Capitol just wants us to feel as uncomfortable as possible. It's unbelievably tight."

"Tell me about it," Britta said, rolling her eyes.

She wasn't above using what she had to get attention, but there was much more to Britta than just that. She was lucky that the top half of her outfit was still attached. On the giant television screen that covered the wall opposite the queue of tributes, Linnea wasn't so lucky. She looked dreadfully uncomfortable. For someone that didn't know Linnea, her act was calm, composed and chirpy. Britta could see past that well enough. She was hating every second.

Britta liked Linnea a lot. She needed to let loose a little, though.

"Hi, Britta."

She looked at Roarke to the side of Neviya. For a moment, Britta wasn't sure what to say, really. She had nothing against him but he'd made his mind up and sadly he'd chosen wrong. Still, Britta didn't feel hostile towards him and she gave him a small grin, to which Neviya seemed to appreciate.

"You look just as uncomfortable as us," Britta remarked.

"I feel it," Roarke said with a timid laugh.

"Well, I'll leave you guys to it. Best get back to Destan," Britta made sure her eye roll was as dramatic as she could possibly make it. "Kill me now."

When she returned, Destan glared at her. "I heard that," he whispered.

"Good."

Britta had nothing left to say as the minutes trickled on by and names were called forwards. She felt nerves eating away at her but they were good nerves – butterflies that tickled her stomach.

Chancellor seemed to be torn between trying to come across charming and a cold-hearted killer. It didn't do anything to impress Britta. She wasn't scared of him. Not like the others seemed to be. Neviya was bright and determined. Roarke a little less so but with enough smiles to charm enough people in the crowd. The two from Three were unmemorable – Britta didn't really pay much attention to them.

She'd tried to spur the crowd against Chancellor, but she'd done that because it seemed right. Shifting the target away from her and onto him might make things interesting tomorrow. She didn't actually care about the other Districts. They were just there at the end of the day.

Britta felt an elbow in her ribs and rounded on Destan, but when he pointed over her shoulder, she gulped nervously and saw a Peacekeeper marching towards her.

"Me?" she pointed to her chest. The Peacekeeper stopped and nodded. "How very gentlemanly of you."

She swished past the man and stood to the side of the stage. _Okay, Britta. Deep breathes. Smile. And wow the crowd. You look flawless._ Britta, for a moment, hated her stylist at the uncomfortable material digging around in her nether regions. But when her name was announced, she smothered that down and walked onto the stage, waving brightly for the crowd and cameras.

 _Fuck my life that's bright,_ Britta thought, ignoring the light that attacked her from every angle. She took Anastasia's hand and shook it eagerly. A camera was close by and she again waved at it. She knew her friends and family were watching her. The sponsors in the crowd vying to see the personality behind the name and training score.

Britta sat down on the comfortable looking armchair and swished her hair over her shoulder. "It's lovely to meet you all," she said, beaming to the crowd. "You've made feel very welcome."

The hoots and hollers died down as Anastasia's voice ricocheted off every corner. Her microphone caught it perfectly. Britta felt her own somewhere hidden in the tangle of fabric round her chest, taped to her skin. The whole experience was surreal.

"Britta, Britta, Britta," Anastasia said, shaking her head with a huge smile plastered on her face. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"And why is that may I ask?"

She gestured to the entirety of Britta and the two women laughed. "Look at you! You're radiant."

"I do my very best," Britta said. "But credit is due rightfully to my amazing stylist. Where are you Serenity? Don't be shy!" Britta pretended to try and find her in the crowd, but truthfully she couldn't see fuck all past the lights. A spotlight did her job for her and Serenity bowed proudly from her position in the audience, then stretched her arms out to put the attention back on Britta.

They'd talked about doing that about twenty minutes ago. Everything Britta was saying and doing, to every swish of her hair and bright laugh, had been rehearsed tenfold.

The conversation was typical, but Britta engaged with every question and tried to put as much of a joyous spin on it as she possibly could. Her life in Four had been momentously fun. But her new life here in the Capitol, as the dazzling superstar she'd always wanted to be, had made her truly believe she had what it took to make it to the end.

When the topic of Linnea and Neviya arose, a small tug of sadness threatened to shake her confident resolve, but Britta ignored it.

They were, and Britta never thought she'd say it, her friends. But they were also her enemies at the end of the day. Neviya and Linnea could act like they were the only ones who took this seriously, but Britta did too.

She wanted to win.

The crown would sit nicely on her head.

* * *

 **Armina Rione, 15 years old;  
District Eight Female.**

* * *

As the line gradually became shorter, Armina's stomach was beginning to piss her off.

She wasn't naturally the nervous type, but this game was something entirely different. She gnawed on her thumb nail and tapped her foot impatiently, playing with the hem of her dress as the girl from Seven – Sinta Montero – flounced onto stage all sunshine and kittens spewing from her mouth.

Armina had nothing against the girl, but she was just another tribute that was in the way of her alliance making it through these Games. She had no idea when her thoughts had taken this turn but maybe it was the way Shual and Albie seemed to always be trying to steer the conversation towards strategy.

She'd never really done that with Albie. It had suddenly come out of nowhere and left Armina feeling a little bit stuck in the middle of the two of them.

"Alright?"

She saw Castor's head slowly move over her shoulder and into her line of vision and she stepped forwards. Armina couldn't help herself but laugh, though. Maybe a few days ago she'd felt jealous that he had found an alliance before her, but now that the two of them had cemented themselves into two valuable looking groups, she was mainly just happy for him.

If she didn't make it through this, she sincerely hoped Castor did.

"Look at them," Armina said, motioning to the screen, not completely ignoring Castor's question. "They're loving her."

"Since when did you become so jealous?" Castor replied, winking.

Armina's nose wrinkled and she shook her head, meeting his eye. "I am not jealous, thank you very much. I just want them to like me." She saw a Peacekeeper march past her, baton swinging by their hip, and felt disgusted that she'd just said that. "Although it seems totally stupid wanting the people who are going to clap for my death to like me."

"Preach," Castor said. "But it is what it is. Cause a stir if you want, though. I need a good laugh."

Armina almost wished she could walk on stage and do something to flip the script. Maybe flash for the cameras. But she knew she didn't have that kind of mindset. If it were any other place, any other time, then maybe she would. Today, though, as much as she disliked herself for admitting it, she simply wanted to be liked.

She had to be seen as someone worthy of rooting for.

Armina looked over Castor's shoulder to where his ally, Carys Lavell, was whispering to Shual about something. She was louder than him though, whispering not really being her forte. District Eight and District Ten. Who knew the connection was there?

"She seems upset," Armina said.

Castor followed Armina's line of sight and shrugged his shoulders, turning back around to face the front. "She's always got something going on. Keeps me on my toes."

"Well good luck to you," Armina said, laughing.

Finally, Sinta left the stage and was replaced by a nervous looking Bryce. He tripped up the step and as he walked onto the stage even his make-up couldn't hide the blush in his cheeks. Armina laughed but not because she was happy he'd embarrassed himself. She just needed something to lighten the mood.

"See you later, princess," Castor whispered in her ear.

Armina again felt the nerves eating away at her stomach but she wasn't about to vomit for the whole country. The Peacekeeper gestured her forwards and the second Anastasia introduced her, Armina lathered the happy-go-lucky smile on her face, and strode onto the stage with waves and kisses being blown into the audience in every direction.

"Now, now," Anastasia said, using her hands to settle the audience. "It's lovely to meet you, Armina."

"The pleasure's all mine," Armina replied.

She noticed a tiny strand of brown hair poking under the cotton-candy pink that she clearly thought no one noticed and repressed a giggle. _Someone's getting fired,_ she thought.

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Anastasia said. "Tell us about you Riones. What's it like back in Eight?"

Armina had practiced looking in the mirror and asking herself the question that she knew Anastasia would ask not just her, but everyone. At first, it had been difficult talking to her reflection about her family, thinking about Eight and the people that she missed and had surrounded her. Armina had always needed that social contact but had never actually understood exactly how to be a significant presence amongst them all.

She had started to find that with Castor, and with Albie, and even with Shual. For all the serious talking her two allies were taking part in, she still enjoyed them very much. They were fast becoming people she could trust and call friends.

 _Uh-oh. The F-word. My mentor banned me from using it._

She placed her hands delicately on her lap and smiled for the whole audience to see. "I've got a little brother called Casso. He's quite the devil." Armina looked into the camera lens and could picture the youngest Rione child staring into the screen, maybe even touching Armina's pixelated face. It made her immensely sad. "One time he caught me and my friends all dressed up. We'd done our make-up because the school was having a little celebration. He felt left out so he covered his face in foundation and ran right out into the street as I was leaving. He always just wanted to be seen with me."

Again, her stomach flipped, but this time it wasn't because of nerves. This time it was because she wanted to cry from the memory. Casso had always annoyed her, truthfully. Now she'd give anything to see that toothy smile again.

"Do you miss District Eight?"

Armina nodded immediately. She blinked a couple of times to rid the beginnings of tears and smiled once more. If her smile could somehow remind her brain the image she had to convey here, then maybe she'd be alright. "It's the best place in Panem." Anastasia placed a hand on Armina's knee. "After the Capitol of course. I've loved every second I've spent in this glorious city."

Anastasia's hand gave her knee a little tap and she removed it, beaming for the cameras and swishing her hair over her shoulder. The little string of brown hair now became two and Armina found a twisted sort of satisfaction in watching them poking out.

She hated every second she had spent in this city but if there was one thing it had given her, it was newfound love for where she came from and the people that were at home waiting for her.

Maybe she'd begun to take them for granted and forgotten how much they meant, but now she'd give anything, do anything, _become_ anything if it meant returning to Eight.

 _Let the Games begin,_ she thought, as Anastasia asked another question.

She was ready.

* * *

 **Altia Wright, 17 years old;  
District Twelve Female. **

* * *

Damon looked so nervous that he was practically dripping.

"Do I mention my dad?" he said, mainly to himself, tapping his foot against the ground. "What if people don't like that? Or do you think they'd like the idea that I'm the son of – what about friends? I don't have many friends. What if she asks for names? Do I make one up?"

Altia was doing everything she could to ignore Damon at this point. Not to be mean or spiteful; in fact the past few days had done wonders in helping her move on from the guilt she felt walking away from Damon, but this had to be about her now.

Altia felt her own sense of nervousness, anyway. The line was almost fully dissipated and she'd spent enough time waiting to know the sorts of questions Anastasia would ask her. First – she'd welcome her giddily on stage and say how she'd been looking forward to meeting her. _Fake._ She probably had to read her name off a prompter.

But what would come next would be the questions about family and friends. Damon wasn't the only one with a sore spot in that subject area. If anything, Altia wished she could run away, back up to her apartment floor and simply sink into her bedsheets and vanish for the evening.

Fear ran rampant with her nerves, the two hand-in-hand as they slowly started to eat away at the steely determination she was so desperately trying to cling to. She had an alliance – the largest alliance in the Games – that made her equally as nervous as it did hopeful that such nice people actually existed in the world. She had to be the fighter that they needed but also the fighter that she had to be to make it far.

The one thing she was scared of more than anything was dying. And tomorrow, it could actually happen.

As if reading her mind, Damon's rambling suddenly went to the realisation that this was their last evening in the Capitol and he gasped. "Altia! It's tomorrow – literally tomorrow. I think I'm going to pass out. That wasn't part of my strategy going into this interview."

"You'll be fine," she found her voice saying, quietly, teeth gritted together. "Honestly – play the whole Peacekeeper's son angle. They'll eat it up."

"I'm not vicious like he is. Would they buy it?"

"If not, who cares?" Altia shrugged her shoulders. "As you say, the Games start tomorrow. There's more important things to worry about."

Damon didn't say anything in response to that. Altia was grateful for the split-second of silence.

"And that ladies and gentleman of Panem, is Ponche Garland. Give it up for District Eleven!"

The huge round of applause snapped Altia back into focus and she realised with a growing void in her stomach that she was next. _Fuck._

"Eat up that stage," Damon said with a smile. "You'll do great!"

A few days ago, she knew Damon would have probably placed a gentle hand on her back, or done something to make her know that he cared for her. He'd learnt not to do that and part of Altia actually … missed the gesture. He was a sweet boy. Being with Sinta, Bryce and Teak especially in her alliance, Damon would have fitted in so well with their light spirits.

"We've got a treat for you everyone." Anastasia's voice sounded harsh in Altia's ears as she stepped up to the side of the stage, waiting for her cue. "All the way from District Twelve, give it up for Altia Wright!"

Applause. Cheers. And on she went.

She replayed Damon's encouragement in her ears and tried to latch onto that as she sunk into the depths of the comfortable cushions. Altia managed a small smile in the general direction of the camera and turned her attention back to Anastasia.

She had a grin on her face that looked almost predatory. Altia despised this lavish, sugar-coated approach to the Games. She hated the idea of having to fight other kids, but this spectacle left a sour taste in her mouth.

"Nice to be here," she managed to squeeze out from her lips. "It's very bright."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure it's very different to what you're accustomed to in Twelve," Anastasia said. "Do you work in one of the mines?"

 _She knows fuck all, doesn't she?_ If Anastasia had done her background research, she would have known that Altia was too young to work in the mines. But Altia also knew that if she were to say no to her question, then she might ask what she actually did. _And I refuse to answer that._

"Yes," Altia said with an eagerly insincere nod of the head. "It's very dirty down there and quite dangerous. If anything, though, it's given me the ability to adapt to some of the harsher environments we have here in Panem."

"Well there's something you can use in tomorrow's Games, can't you dear?"

Altia bit her lip and nodded. She hadn't actually thought of it like that, and even though the mines were a lie, it wasn't completely untrue that Altia had had to go through some shit to get to where she was right this second. Maybe those experiences, however dark, could mean something beneficial as the Hunger Games began tomorrow.

Altia would just have to wait and see.

"Now, let's talk home, is that alright Altia?"

She forced herself to nod. _Anything but this._

"Who have you got cheering for you back in Twelve? Anyone special?"

Altia pictured the two of them sat in front of a television screen. There was only one person that acted as a source of light in her life and that person was, aside from Altia herself, the reason why she had to fight tomorrow and fight the hardest she'd ever had to before.

"Marigold. And my Father. It's just us three."

"Any friends?" Anastasia asked.

Altia shook her head. "I work very hard – down in the mines – to help support them. It's not much but it's better than nothing."

She could tell she was boring but Altia didn't really care. The quicker she was off the stage, the better in her mind. Those bedsheets certainly sounded tempting right about now. She wasn't impatient to get to the Games, but she was ready to strip all this stupid falseness that the Capitol had thrown at her for the very reason why she was here in the first place. At least she could let her fighting do the talking.

"Ever met your District partner before?"

Altia paled and felt her throat constrict. "No," she managed to say. "Not until we were both reaped."

Anastasia's wink told Altia that she did not believe her and for a second prepared herself for the next question. But it didn't come.

"Alrighty then," Anastasia said instead. "Let's talk about your strategy…"

Altia felt the rest of the interview whizz past her and when it was her time to leave the stage, she felt grateful that she was now free to return to her bed and drift off.

This was her last sleep. Her very last sleep before the Games.

 _I can't believe it's finally here._

The Games were well and truly about to begin.

* * *

 **Can you tell I hate interviews? Meh. Hope this chapter was okay.**

 **Well done to the Sunshine Alliance (the label I have seen in the reviews so may as well call them that!) Teak, Celestin, Sinta, Bryce, Sheridan and Altia – you might not win the Hunger Games, but you won the poll!**

 **Can't believe there's only one more chapter left before the Games. It's been hella fun!**


	26. Showtime

**Chapter Twenty-Six.**

* * *

 **Launch.**

* * *

 **Linnea Halvard, 18 years old;  
District One Female.**

* * *

Linnea stepped out of her room and yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

It was still dark. The apartment was lit in an eerie glow from a single lamp that rested prettily atop a small, couch-side table. The clock read something just past five AM. With another yawn, she took a step forwards and felt the plushness of the rug below her feet.

She could almost be forgiven for thinking this was a normal day. That Linnea was back in One, sneaking down from upstairs to grab an early morning snack or drink of water. For a moment, all she could hear was the ticking of the clock and Linnea felt at peace.

Then a light flickered on, and Linnea was snapped back into reality.

"They're upstairs," Ailsa said, smiling at Linnea. "And don't worry. The morning of my Games, I didn't sleep a wink. Think I vomited about three times."

Linnea chuckled quietly. _Don't wake up the beast._ "You vomited?"

"I know, I know, doesn't fit my image. The nerves ripped right through me. How are you feeling?"

Linnea was surprised at how calm she felt. She hadn't slept much at all but that hadn't been because of nerves, really. All her teenage life there had only ever been one goal in mind and that had been leading to this day. If anything, surreal described the way she perceived this moment. Extraordinary.

She shrugged her shoulders in response to Ailsa's question. "Will I get into trouble?" Linnea asked.

Ailsa shook her head. "You're from One. That carries some sway around here. Plus, you're about to go into the Games. What could they actually do to you?"

 _Fair enough._ Linnea nodded at Ailsa, brought her hand up in a small wave, and walked straight towards the elevator. It didn't take long for her to arrive at the rooftop gardens. There was a large concrete expanse where Linnea had been told the hovercrafts would soon land and be ready to whisk them all away to the Arena. For now, though, it was beautiful.

Linnea could describe it as tranquil. Part of her envied the natural beauty it all exuded, whereas Linnea had spent her whole life trying her best to be the perfect image of what was expected. It had made her so critical of others, but worse of all, it had made her feel incredibly critical of herself. The Capitol and the journey she had been on so far had lessened that somewhat. If anything, she was finding peace.

"And the queen arrives."

Britta's voice broke the reverie and Linnea smiled at her two allies. Neviya was lounging against the brick wall, hair frizzy from having just woken up. It seemed the Career girls shared something in common this morning: none of them had had much sleep at all.

Ailsa had been hanging around and after a few calls, here they were. The morning of the Games.

She did a little curtsey at Britta's joke and sat down on the garden bench. She yawned once more and stretched her arms out. "My body has failed me. It's like I need sleep, but can't fall asleep."

"Literally," Neviya said. "A few hours' time and we'll be back up here anyway. What's a few hours' sleep?"

"True," Linnea replied.

Britta sidled on over and sat between the girls, stretching her arms out with a yawn and enveloping her two allies. They all laughed and fell into her. Linnea felt elated for a moment. The pressure of her entire existence – past, present and future dissipated entirely and shattered against the morning breeze.

Britta's laugh was right in her ear but she marvelled in it, finding comfort in the noise. Neviya was the first to lean forwards. Linnea couldn't help but look at her and see the _10_ attached to her now. The highest out of their alliance. It had made Linnea unimaginably jealous and also incredibly proud.

What a rollercoaster this experience was.

"I can't believe it's today," Neviya said. "I mean – it's today, girls. Today!"

"We heard you the first time," Linnea replied.

Neviya shook her head and the mood seemed to suddenly change. Britta was catching her breath from the light giggling and placed a hand on Neviya's knee, squeezing it ever so gently. Neviya registered the hand and smiled half-heartedly.

"Have we been stupid?" she asked, looking at her allies.

Linnea and Britta looked at each other and then back at Neviya, both shaking their heads.

"Not at all," Linnea said.

"Don't be silly," Britta replied.

Neviya continued to look at them miserably. "Can we actually take them on?" Her face had gone paler than usual, lip wobbling. "I have no qualms about what must be done. Chancellor, Destan… even Roarke… I don't want to die. I've resolved myself to what we need to do, but I can't help but think we did this too early."

Linnea beat Britta to the punch. They couldn't have this kind of talk. It had to be squashed immediately. If they didn't go into this united and ready for what had to happen, then they were already defeated.

"You know the type of person Chancellor is. And I think it's safe to say we've seen a little bit more of the true Destan. This is the Games and we know…" Linnea paused and sighed, the sadness clawing at her at what she had to say next, "…we know that two of us won't make it. But we're together." She took Britta's hand and Britta took Neviya's. "We're a team. We're going to have to do horrible things today but we signed up for this. We chose this path and what we're about to do is wrong – sure. Most of the kids here did not want to walk down this road. But what's done is done. For our sakes, we know what we have to do."

Britta nodded. Neviya nodded. And for the final time, before the Games hit them like a bullet, they fell backwards into another heap with Britta's arms around them and just smiled, looking up at the morning sun.

It was beautiful.

A slice of heaven.

 _And soon, hell on Earth._

* * *

 **Sinta Montero, 16 years old;  
District Seven Female.**

* * *

 _One hour left._

Sinta struggled to eat anything. She'd tried to eat a bowl of cereal but that felt like concrete going down her clamped throat. She'd tried to bite into an apple but she'd spat it straight back out. Even the sweet tang to the orange juice had felt like acid scorching her mouth.

She'd given up in the end and now just sat on the couch, leaning into the warmth and comfort of the cushions. It was now a waiting game. The feeling of knowing what was to come and the clock being there, highest in the room above them all, almost teasing them with its two hands ticking, ticking, _ticking._

Sinta would give anything to be back on stage with Anastasia. To be back in the Training Hall. To stand side-by-side with Bryce on the Chariot. To sit in the luxury of the Capitol's train.

 _To be with my friends._

Sinta's stomach was playing its own game. She'd already been sick once after the fiasco of trying to eat something. More than anything, she was terrified. It gnawed at every speck of Sinta Montero that it could get its hungry claws into. She wanted to cry. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to forget.

Yet, Sinta would not give up.

She couldn't.

"You have a sponsor in line?" Sinta found her voice asking aloud, directed towards Gigi her mentor.

The kind woman nodded her head but her face betrayed the warmth she was trying to exude. It didn't bode well that her mentor was just as terrified for Sinta as she felt for her own chances. She had spent the entirety of her time in the Capitol being the confident, secure presence that she'd always prided herself on being.

This morning, after a dreadful sleep, it felt like that had all been stripped back. It left her feeling a weak version of herself. A Hunger Games tribute version of Sinta Montero. Not the upbeat, friendly girl from Seven that had sat on a wall and laughed with the people closest to her.

"A businesswoman from the upper echelon of the Capitol," Gigi said. "She has a daughter your age. I spoke to her last night after your interview and she found you charming. She's going to do her best to get you something in the Arena."

"That's nice of her," Sinta said earnestly.

"As the Games go on, things become more and more expensive. If you make it past the first few days-" Gigi paused and looked horrified, realising what had just slipped out of her mouth. "I-I didn't – I didn't mean-"

Sinta shook her head and tried to smile at the only woman that had really shown her proper kindness in the Capitol. A woman that was trying her best. "It's okay, Gigi. I'm going to do my best."

"You have a great alliance. There's a lot going for you, Sinta."

"Exactly," Sinta said, her stomach a mess of nerves and fear, but the glow in her chest beginning to brighten again at the thought of her five allies. It was Sinta that had brought them together. Sinta that had united a group of tributes in loyalty and trust. She knew, deep down, that all of them would have to die if she was going to see her friends and family again, but right now that didn't matter. Surviving today had to be her priority. "And I appreciate all you've done for me Gigi."

A door opened and Ellis, Bryce's mentor swaggered through with a glass bottle in his hand. He slumped into the armchair and offered Sinta as caring of a smile as he could muster. He was a nice man but with vices that held him back from doing anything for Bryce. Sinta and Gigi had done her best instead for her District partner. Her _friend._

"You alright, kid?"

Sinta nodded at the slurred voice of the man in front of her. "As well as I can be. Is it mad that I feel impatient to just get there?"

"This is the worst part," Gigi agreed. "The waiting is painful in itself."

"I've done all I can now in the Capitol to give myself the best chance. I just have to remember that."

Another door opened and Sinta heard the tell-tale steps of Bryce slip into the room. When Sinta saw Bryce stood in the entranceway of the lounging area, she smiled brightly and stood up. Then there was a sniffle and as Bryce stepped forwards, Sinta saw his entire face streaked with tears, bright red cheeks and hair a mess.

 _Oh no._ She stumbled forwards and enveloped him into a hug. He was taller but that didn't matter. He rested her head in her shoulder and just sobbed; agonizingly painful sobs that ripped right through Sinta.

She had done as much as she could to bring out the confidence in this boy that deserved the sunshine and the love of so many, yet had never seemed to believe he was worthy of it. And she had been so proud to see it grow inside of him.

Sinta would do anything for Bryce. Anything to make him believe that he was deserving of a happy life.

"Oh, Bryce," Sinta said, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "I know. I know."

Bryce tried to say something but it was strangled by the sobbing and he gave up, his body shaking as Sinta held him as tightly as she could, feeling their body warmth connect. His crying made the dam inside of Sinta break and her own hot tears trickled down her cheeks, splashing against the rug as the two friends from District Seven just stood there.

In the background, the clock continued to tick and Sinta wished she could rip it from the wall and smash it against the table. The two mentors from Seven – Gigi and Ellis – just sat there. It was a picture of sadness. A portrait of why the Hunger Games were so wrong, so evil.

"We'll be okay," Sinta found herself saying, and she had to do everything she could to believe it. "We're in this together."

Bryce nodded his head feebly in her shoulder. "Together."

And the two of them continued to cry, friends united in fear.

* * *

 **Iva Giorgi, 17 years old;  
District Nine Female.**

* * *

"Holy shit balls it's actually happening."

Iva looked at Spelt's mentor, Noah, and couldn't help but cringe as he flounced around the room, panicking.

"You have everything you need, right?"

He was acting like they were late for a trip. Iva just watched him, unable to make words come out of her mouth, and it wasn't like Spelt had the hidden talent of being able to speak much either. The two tributes from Nine just watched as a man that was supposed to be a composed sense of leadership continued to pace around the room, muttering to himself.

Velma on the other hand, Iva's mentor, walked up to the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to make them more nervous than they already are," she said, not harshly, but stern. "Now sit down and drink the rest of your coffee."

Iva smiled as Velma's eyes met hers. In truth, as that infernal clock continued to tick down the time they had left in the Capitol's false sense of luxury, Iva just wanted it to be over with. The trip to the Arena she'd been told wouldn't take too long and the preparation underneath would only be around twenty or so minutes.

It was this bit, on her apartment floor, that felt overwhelming. It was suffocating.

Spelt, from the other side of the room, cleared his throat and all eyes snapped towards him. He hadn't said a word since the two had woken up and Iva didn't blame him. There was nothing else that could really be said. They'd gone over their separate strategies, Iva with more of a focus since she had an alliance. Spelt would get in and run out. It was quite simple really.

Iva had Henley and Damon to worry about. Alliances came with their own strings that she was still unsure of, but had also grown to connect with. Henley had solidified herself as the most competent in their alliance. Damon was potentially a liability but that had been Velma vocalizing the thought, not Iva.

She liked him. A lot. Way more than she'd ever expected.

The harsh truth of the Games was weighing heavy on her, but she was allowing herself the blind delusion that they could be close. Anything to repel the nerves.

"Five minutes," Spelt said, eyeing the clock. "No wait – three? I'll be honest, I've never really learnt how to tell time."

Iva looked at the clock and felt her heart leap into her throat. "Two. Two minutes."

No one moved a muscle. Not even Noah.

"We best get going then," Velma said solemnly. "No harm in being early."

Iva looked at Spelt. Spelt looked at Iva. Something went between the two of them and it almost made Iva want to break down in tears. She couldn't allow herself those emotions, though. Growing up with just one other person in her life, disconnecting herself from people her age, she'd never really learnt how to deal with what other people were feeling in the first place anyway.

She blinked away the tears and refused to allow herself weakness. She had to get into game-mode.

Velma led the way towards the elevator and Spelt shared a quick hug with Noah. Only one mentor was allowed to escort them to the roof. Iva nodded at the man and he tried to smile back but truthfully, she knew that he would rather see Spelt return than her. She didn't blame him for that.

The elevator doors seemed to take longer to open, but Iva was sure that wasn't true. Each step they took felt like concrete was weighing them down. When they finally stood in a line of three, with Velma pressing the button for the roof, Iva felt something against her fingers and almost jumped up.

She looked at Spelt and saw a silent tear roll down the bridge of his nose. His fingers awkwardly tried to find their way round Iva's and something compelled her to allow him to hold her hand. It felt strange and totally unlike Iva, but it also felt warm and comforting and the tear that splashed against the elevator floor made Iva looked at Spelt with genuine fondness.

"Good luck in there, Spelt. I honestly mean it."

He nodded and bit his lip, another tear rolling down his cheek. "If I don't make it, I want you to. You don't deserve to die."

Before Iva could say anything else, Velma's voice rang out louder than she probably intended. "Neither of you do," she said. "One of you is making it back here alive. You just – you just have to."

The doors opened to reveal a rooftop garden that looked beautiful under the morning sunlight. As much as Iva wished she could have a chance to go and relax amongst the flowers, it was the two hovercrafts in front, settled atop the concrete that overwhelmed Iva's senses.

Two lines had already begun to form and a crowd of mentors stood to the side, watching their tributes as Peacekeepers stood intimidating before each queue. Velma took tentative steps forwards and Iva and Spelt followed, releasing hands as quickly as they'd joined.

 _You got this,_ Iva thought, as they neared the crowd. _I have to believe it. I just have to._

Velma turned to face them and placed a hand on both Spelt and Iva's shoulder. A gentle squeeze and Iva wanted to hug the woman. As a gesture of thanks.

"Spelt, on your left. Iva, on your right," she said, pausing to look at the two of them. A tear built up in the corner of her eye and she blinked. "This never gets any easier." She released her hands from their shoulders and stepped backwards. "I wish you luck, both of you. I honestly do."

When Velma gestured for them to step forwards, she joined the crowd of her fellow Victors and Iva nodded at Spelt, who returned it and the two separated for their queues.

Iva looked at the crowd of Victors and pictured herself there, amongst the mentors seeing off their tributes. She could see the pain on so many faces and stood, shaking in her position in the queue. Shual from Ten stood in front but he didn't look back at Iva. She could see him shaking too and knew it wasn't just her that was absolutely terrified.

 _Calm down._ She closed her eyes and took a step as the queue began to move. _Calm down._

Iva opened her eyes and settled them on the hovercraft.

It was really happening.

Time to leave the Capitol.

* * *

 **Sheridan Sannah, 17 years old;  
District Eleven Female.**

* * *

 _I'm going to throw up._

Sheridan was buckled up next to Altia. She tried to convince herself the reason she felt so sick was because the hovercraft had hit some sort of turbulence, bouncing up and down, but Sheridan knew that was bullshit.

Her palms felt sweaty as she kept fiddling with the seatbelt. She had a sore throat, a headache, and her eyes were puffy and tired. Sheridan had never given a fuck what the Capitol thought of her during this week, but she hadn't been stupid enough either to throw her chances away for something so silly as pride. Now, though, she wished she'd spent longer in the shower.

Who knew if she'd ever have the chance to take one again.

Opposite Sheridan and Altia, Celestin and Sinta were sat next to each other, both pale in the face and eyes brimming with fear. She felt something towards them that had wowed Sheridan the past few days. For as long as she could remember, she'd kept people at an arms-length because they came with their own baggage and dishonesty. Ever since meeting Sinta, and from that the domino effect of everyone else, she'd started to think that maybe back in Eleven she'd been a complete and utter fool.

Had she wasted her time, all those years, keeping people at bay? Sheridan would do anything to get home to have a go at answering that question. She'd do whatever had to be done to give herself a shot at a normal life again.

"You look like you're going to vom'," Celestin said, not looking far off being sick either. Sinta nodded her head with her eyes firmly shut.

"For the first time in what I think is forever, I'm going to kindly ask you to not talk to me," Sinta said. "Not to be rude. I'm worried if I talk I will throw up everywhere."

Celestin nodded and apologised. His eyes turned to face Sheridan and Altia as another bump upwards left him groaning uncomfortably, twisting in his seat.

"You alright?" he asked.

Sheridan nodded. "You'd think with all their technology they'd be able to get us there in one piece. Maybe dying in a horrific hovercraft incident would be an easier way to go."

Sheridan laughed at her silly way of lightening the mood and saw the girl from Five – Henley, Teak's District partner – eye her warily. She bit her lip, almost ashamed of herself.

"Sorry," she said, quietly. "I didn't mean that."

Altia's hand brushed Sheridan's. She looked at her ally and Altia pulled her arm back. "Sorry. Didn't mean to do that. I just can't sit still. This thing is really annoying me."

Sheridan twisted in her own seat, the straps digging into her. After what felt like the most torturous journey she'd ever been on, and it wasn't like she'd been on many, the hovercraft started to descend and immediately Sheridan wished she could be back in the air again.

 _Fuckfuckfuck. We're here._

The next ten minutes seemed to blur into one. She said a quick goodbye to her allies as they were all shoved off the hovercraft and Sheridan found herself being led by a solitary Peacekeeper. They walked down a very clinical looking corridor, which led onto another, then another.

"It's like a maze," Sheridan said to nobody.

The Peacekeeper said nothing and continued to escort Sheridan until they reached a door with an _11_ in gold upon the wood.

"In here?" Sheridan said. "Carry on sir." She couldn't help but salute sarcastically and she threw open the door, walking into the small room. Immediately, her eyes went straight to the far corner where a metal pedestal lay, half encased by a transparent tube.

She knew what that meant. And she knew what the five-minute counter on the wall stood for as well. Her mind went immediately to what she'd seen on the television screen last year. The blood. The bodies. The two from Eleven dead in the first five minutes.

She'd known the girl in passing. She'd been nice and all Sheridan had ever been was a complete asshole. _And now it could be me. In ten minutes, I might be dead._

The thought had no time to grip hold of Sheridan because the door opened once more and Rococo, her stylist, walked into the room. At the sight of the annoying little man, Sheridan took a step backwards. Her lip curled in distaste. She couldn't get over her dislike for the Capitol and its people. Especially men like this that thought dressing up all prettily was such an honour for anyone not from his prized city.

It didn't matter squat to Sheridan. She hadn't fought against it either, though.

"Get this on," he said, walking over to the side of the room and picking up the Arena outfit from a peg. She hadn't even registered it had been there but when he threw it, she realised that there was nowhere to get changed privately.

"I suppose you've seen everything," Sheridan said. "Pervert."

The man just narrowed his eyes at her as she stripped and put the outfit on. It was nothing special. Cargo pants, white short-sleeved top, a jacket to go over it all and keep her warm. Rococo took out a comb and moved towards Sheridan but at the sight of it, she took a step back and held her hand up.

"Don't you even think about it," Sheridan warned. "There's no need. Not where I'm about to go."

She looked at the timer on the side and realised it said two minutes. She gulped. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her entire body was shaking but she refused to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her cry and break down. She'd done that silently in her room this morning.

This was the time for Sheridan to be the fighter she had to be. Regardless of the cost.

"Best step onto the plate then," Rococo said, waving half-heartedly in the direction of where she had to stand. "Hope to see you soon. I guess. Whatever."

Sheridan sneered. "Charmed as always."

She did as she was told however and moved slowly over to the metallic disc. She stood on it, as straight as she could, her feet shoulder width apart as she stared out at Rococo. He waved at her as the countdown reached _10 seconds_ and the tube encased her, shutting her off completely.

 _Oh my god I'm going to be sick…_ Sheridan's face felt hot, her throat tighter than ever, and all she saw as she began to rise, was Rococo's snide little wave, followed by a middle finger.

 _That fucking little…_

If anything, Sheridan would win just to wipe that smile off his face.

The sheer pleasure that would give her however was wiped clean as she ascended into darkness. Ten seconds fell into fifteen and she rose, fixing into place.

 _Fuck my life._

Let the Hunger Games begin.

* * *

 **This is mental. 72 POVs and a year and a half later… we are here! The Games begin next chapter.**

 **I know my update speed has been ridiculous and I'm aware for some it became a lot, but I genuinely appreciate each and every one of you, whether it's just through reading, or you dropping a review as well. I've never felt this much about a batch of tributes and the idea of having to get rid of any is more difficult than I thought.**

 **But the show must go on! So some questions ready for the next update.**

 _ **Who do you**_ _ **think**_ _ **will die in the bloodbath?**_

 _ **Who do you**_ _ **want**_ _ **to die in the bloodbath?**_

 _ **Overall thoughts on this story so far?**_

 **Apologies in advance for anyone that loses a tribute next chapter. I think I'm going to now give people a chance to actually catch up lmao (if you want to!) so expect the bloodbath by Thursday at the earliest. Could be later. Earliest Thursday tho I promise!**

 **Thanks guys for everything. Twenty-six chapters later, we are hereeeeee.**


	27. Dynasty

**Chapter Twenty-Seven.**

* * *

 **Bloodbath.**

* * *

Twenty-four metal pedestals fixed into place.

Atop them, the tributes stood in a circle, perfectly spaced around the magnificent golden horn. The Cornucopia was filled with an assortment of everything someone would need to do well in The Hunger Games. As the sixty-second countdown began to _boom_ into every corner of the Arena and every television screen across Panem, each tribute took in their surroundings.

It had only been early morning when they'd been shipped from the Capitol but here the sky was dark; a night-time canvas with stars that peppered the glorious open air. The moon was bright and brilliant aglow above their heads. One could be forgiven for finding it so beautiful.

Around them, again in a circle set far back, tall oak trees with branches and leaves that loomed into the sky were packed so closely together no tribute could see between them. For now, they were in an enclosed area, with the Cornucopia the clear focus for the tributes.

It was set in the centre of a field, with jet-black grass that twisted and curled to just above their feet level. Each and every single one of the tributes looked around them and were dazzled by the small specks of yellow and gold that glistened and stood out in the cool, dark air. Fireflies that nestled amongst the grass and flitted between each bloom of green.

The entire scene could be mistaken for one of tranquillity. Peace. Beauty.

Then the countdown reached a higher crescendo, and each one of them focused back in on the golden horn, all with a story behind them and futures unknown.

* * *

 _24…_

Chancellor's eyes fell on the bow, slap bang in the middle of the Cornucopia, and grinned happily. He couldn't give a shit about some pretty fireflies buzzing around him. They were irritating. Useless. The Arena served only one purpose and he didn't care what the Gamemakers filled it with. His eyes gazed around the ring of tributes and saw, with delight, the irritating girl from Seven – Sinta, all smiles but now nothing but tears – shivering on her pedestal not too far from him. _Perfect._

 _23…_

Linnea could see Britta but not Neviya. Her fingers opened and closed by her side and she ignored the nervous feeling in her stomach. It had been nice to sit with her friends that morning, surrounded by beauty, but this was now her time to focus. If she let that go, she could die. She couldn't let that happen.

 _22…_

Roarke's stomach was awash with regret over everything that had happened so far. He could see Neviya and Destan and he knew where his mind and heart both wanted to take him. In opposite directions. _I made my choice,_ Roarke thought sadly. _And I must stick by it._

 _21…_

Neviya's red mane of hair stood out amongst the golden glow of the fireflies. Next to her, the quivering, fearful boy from Twelve shivered and she felt a pang of guilt. _Poor boy, he didn't choose this._ She could allow herself such emotions as long as they didn't cloud her judgement the second the gong sounded. It was time to do what had to be done. Kill or be killed.

 _20…_

Nikos had volunteered for this shit and standing here, surrounded by weaponry designed to kill him, he had no fucking idea why he'd done it. He felt a fool. More than a fool. If he could turn back time he would, but it was too late. It was time to knuckle down. Fight. Kill, if he had to. Volunteering had been a mistake, but his future could still be brighter than his past. He'd give anything to make it home.

 _19…_

Albie gave Armina a small wave. She couldn't see Shual but that didn't faze Albie. In and out, they'd said. Get what they needed and quickly disappear together. The trees looked foreboding but she couldn't deny the beauty that surrounded them. She had a job to do, today: survive. She could worry about tomorrow later. Right now – priority number one. Get out alive.

 _18…_

Destan spotted a spear not too far from where he stood. The sight of the weapon filled him with an anxious sort of feeling that made him angry at himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ This was no time to allow himself any shred of regret or self-hatred over the choices he'd made. Maybe it would have been easier to play along and take out Chancellor. But it was too late. He had to find his allies and do what needed to be done. Time to fit the one image he'd never been able to nail correctly: time to be a Career.

 _17…_

Britta's eyes met Linnea and she gave her ally a friendly nod. First things first, they would find Neviya. Then they would fulfil their role and kill. Britta's gut told her that the idea of killing actually didn't sound as easy as she'd kidded herself into believing it would be. She could see Chancellor grinning at a poor tribute not too far from where he stood and didn't understand the pure glee that radiated through him. _I'm not Chancellor,_ Britta thought. _But I can still win this._

 _16…_

Teak's breakfast came up, right there and then, light chunks showering the grass in front of him. For a moment, panic flared in his mind that the mines would go off, but nothing happened. He felt queasy. Light-headed. Absolutely terrified. He caught eyes with Bryce and his friend gave him a thumbs-up, mouthing a question he couldn't make out. The fear felt overwhelming, but he held onto it, determined to use it as fuel to survive. The other option was to give up. He couldn't do that.

 _15…_

Henley's head whizzed around as she tried to spot a med-pack. Then she felt guilty. She hadn't bothered to look for Iva or Damon. The mindset she was slowly growing accustomed to felt strange but she was beginning to accept this version of herself. When she did spot Iva, she felt secure enough that together they'd be able to quickly dart in, grab what they had to get, and leave unscathed. Maybe optimism had no place here, but it was the best she could come up with.

 _14…_

Celestin hated that he hadn't gotten enough sleep last night, but it was too late for that. A week ago, he'd have just slept some more and forgotten the world existed. This couldn't be like that. He refused to give into past desires. He tried to find Maisley and realised she shouldn't be his priority right now. As much as he liked her, it was his alliance that needed him most. And he needed them. No question.

 _13…_

Maisley's little fingers clenched into fearful fists that shivered by her side. She had a look in her eye that was both absolutely terrified, but resolved to make it out of this place alive. She could see Ponche and Carys and knew she'd head over there first. Then it would be Castor. And then supplies. She had her plan and she needed to stick by it. Maisley knew she wouldn't win in a fight so her protection had to come first. She had to surround herself with the people she had called friends and be ready to sacrifice them for her own well-being. _Harsh, but so is the Hunger Games._

 _12…_

Bryce watched Teak nervously. He could see the vomit around him nestled in the black grass and felt a pang of remorse. He'd done all his crying earlier that morning. Now – he had to focus. He could see Chancellor looking at Sinta, eyes unmoving, and spotted Sheridan nearby. With a twitch of his head in the direction of the boy from One, Sheridan followed his gaze and saw what Bryce was trying to make her see. He didn't care if he was a Career. Sinta was his friend. She'd always been there for him. Now it was his time to repay the favour.

 _11…_

Sinta couldn't get Chancellor's eyes to leave her and she wanted to scream at him. Her stomach was already threatening to overflow and leave her stinking of whatever threatened to come up. Sinta wished she'd managed to eat something for breakfast but that was nowhere near her priority right now. She could see Bryce, Teak and Sheridan. Right now – her friends were what mattered. She would do whatever it took to help them get out of this alive.

 _10…_

Castor couldn't see any of his allies but he didn't let that unnerve him. _Calm down,_ he told himself, feeling his knees becoming jittery. He spotted a pack not too far from where he stood and mentally told himself to go for that first. Anything he could provide his alliance would be useful right now. They were a team. He'd do his part.

 _9…_

Armina continued to look at Albie as she did the same. Fixating on her friend made Armina able to stop the shaking of her legs and compose herself. It felt horrific what she was about to become a part of, but she hadn't spent the Capitol trying to fool herself either about what she would have to do. Albie was a rock for her, but Armina knew she had to find it in herself to be able to be apart from her. Only one could win. It would be her.

 _8…_

Spelt looked at the Cornucopia and saw a belt of knives. If he could just grab that and nothing else, he could be in and out before anyone noticed. Spelt had no allies so he had no one else to find. He hoped as he found Iva standing on her pedestal, steely gaze set somewhere amongst the grass, that she would do well. But his priority had to be himself. Life as a loner made that easier. With no strings to tie him down, maybe he could make it out of this alive.

 _7…_

Iva stared at the sword as if it were staring straight back at her. The other tributes at this very moment were nothing but background as she tried her best to remain as focused on her pedestal as she possibly could. She couldn't allow herself the emotions that might get in the way of her making it out of this alive. Iva would do whatever it took to support Henley and Damon today, but she had to remain her top priority right now. If she had to choose, the choice had already been made.

 _6…_

Shual couldn't see his allies but he did his best not to let that faze him. If he let his mind wander, then he knew that he'd lose focus on what was most important. To his left he could see the girl from One, blonde hair whipping in the wind, and felt the pit in his stomach grow and grow. _A Career._ She had her eyes set on something, though, and that something wasn't Shual. For now, that was a good thing.

 _5…_

Carys wiped the angry tears from her eyes. _Don't be such a baby!_ She hated the fact that more than anything else, right this very second, she felt so petrified she could chunder just like Teak had. It was not the look she'd ever gone for: being seen as weak. Not since she'd committed herself to smothering that all down and fighting against the world. Now she was beginning to strip those layers back and find something else. She could see Maisley and knew that she'd protect the little girl. It was an odd feeling, especially since she wanted to win herself. But protect her she would. For however long that could last.

 _4…_

Ponche could see two of his allies and for now that was good enough. It didn't matter anymore that he felt like he fell into the shadows. Those sorts of thoughts had no bearing on what was about to happen. He'd do anything to secure his own survival. Even leave his alliance if he had to. He wished he could see Castor but the Cornucopia was so large it was hard to see around it. Right now, he didn't know which direction to run to, but the countdown was almost over. _I have to make my mind up._

 _3…_

Sheridan saw Chancellor leering at Sinta. _Fuck that noise._ No way was she about to let this girl so full of light be snuffed out by some creep with a fetish for blood. Bryce looked like he was thinking something similar. She tried her best to get Altia's attention but without literally shouting her name, there was nothing she could do. It felt strange that for a stranger she was about to risk her life, but something about Sinta made that make sense. _Oh well,_ Sheridan thought. _Time to become a good person._

 _2…_

Damon wanted to cry, vomit, faint and cry some more. It was a whirl-wind and what made it worse was that he couldn't see any of his allies. He spotted Altia and tried to catch her attention but she was focused on something else. To his left, Neviya from Two stood resolute on her plate and it made him want to keel over. He had to find his courage and find it quick otherwise he was doomed. It would be over before he'd really had a chance to fight.

 _1…_

Altia's eyes narrowed as she focused on a patch of grass where an assortment of supplies were strewn across. Maybe she didn't necessarily like the fact her alliance was so large, but that didn't mean she wouldn't do her part to help them. She was part of a team. That had to stand for something. Maybe later on, she would think differently and act accordingly, but right now… _no, they're my team, and a team sticks together._

 _0…_

The gong sounded.

All hell broke loose.

* * *

Chancellor didn't miss a beat. As soon as the gong rang out, his feet took him off the pedestal and he made a beeline straight for Sinta. She had been waiting for it but the realisation that it was happening left her motionless, standing there on her pedestal, a deer in headlights.

As tributes flooded the Cornucopia area, Chancellor reached Sinta and grinned at her maliciously.

"I don't need a weapon to kill you," he said, each step taking him closer and closer to the whimpering girl.

Sinta felt sweat and tears trickling down her face and took a frantic step backwards, stumbling over the pedestal and landing on her back. The air was knocked from her lungs and the tears began to fall even faster. Her heart pounded against her chest. Every fibre of her being told her to get up and fight but she couldn't bring herself to do it. For simply being herself, this monster had targeted her right from the off.

And he was about to kill her.

"Oh well," Chancellor said, taking a bigger step forward. "It's a pity you're all alone."

Another step and he heard rustling behind him. When Chancellor turned around, he was met with the disgusting view of three other tributes.

Where Chancellor was filled with revulsion, Sinta saw a miracle.

"She's not alone," Sheridan said, flanked by Teak and Bryce. "Now back the fuck off."

In the face of a Career, perhaps alone there was no such thing as a chance. But together, united through their loyalty towards Sinta and each other, Chancellor realised with stunning ferocity that he was outmatched.

And he'd been stupid enough to not grab a weapon.

Sheridan, Teak and Bryce charged forwards and tackled Chancellor to the ground. He growled and tried to force himself upwards but Sheridan had him by the waist, pinning him to the grass. Teak and Bryce wrestled with his arms and ignored his legs that went wild as he did everything in his power to free himself.

Sinta finally stood shakily to her feet.

"T-Thank you," she managed to say, her voice strengthening by the second. "You saved my life."

"Sinta! It's not done yet!" Bryce's voice was louder than she'd ever heard before and it completely snapped her back to focus. As Chancellor howled bloody murder, almost knocking Teak off of him, she saw it.

A glimpse of silver amongst the golden fireflies.

 _Oh my…_ she picked up the knife and when it came into focus, Sheridan's eyes widened and she nodded. "Do it," she said.

"I…"

Bryce, Teak and Sheridan just stared at her as they struggled to keep Chancellor down. _It's now or never, Sinta. This is the Hunger Games. You… you have to…_

"DO IT!"

She felt the tears again but this time refused to let herself be the victim. Her alliance needed her. Her friends were depending on Sinta.

Chancellor's eyes widened and for maybe the first, and only time in his life, there was something similar to fear swimming amongst the rage. Sinta stabbed downwards sloppily and cried out loud at the sound and feeling it made as it entered Chancellor's chest. He squirmed once, twitched, and went still.

Her allies let him go and stared at Sinta. The blood welled between her fingers and she dropped the knife into the grass, darkening the beauty of the moonlit field.

"He's dead," she whispered.

The first kill of the Games. _And I'm the killer,_ Sinta thought.

They had no time to think about it. Things had only just begun.

* * *

Across the field, nearer to the Cornucopia, Nikos panicked as the girl from Two sped past him with a spear in her hand. For some reason he tried to hug the grass with his body. _As if that'll hide me._ When he realised she was either not interested in him, or hadn't seen him, he continued to fill the backpack with all sorts of random junk that was scattered in the grass.

He found some arrows but no bow. Although not quite as useful as they could be, he kept them anyway and finished by gripping onto the small knife that was nestled amongst an empty water flask and box of matches.

 _Okay, now run you idiot._ He stood up, surveyed his surroundings, and was almost swept to the side by another Career running madly into the fray. Nikos had no idea which one and didn't care to spend anymore time finding out. Across the field he spotted Albie, side by side with Armina, and silently wished her luck.

It took him ten or so seconds to reach the inner line of tall oak trees. Nikos disappeared from the bloodbath. With no allies, there was no reason to stick around.

* * *

Neviya breathed heavily as she jogged closer towards the Cornucopia. With her spear grasped tight in her hand, she had no time for the nerves she felt. Maybe she could deal with them later but right now, spotting Linnea and Britta on the other side of the golden horn, she had other priorities to attend to.

She had no ill will towards any of the other tributes, but if she wanted to win, there was no other way. The nearest person to her had his back to Neviya. The _11_ was stitched into his jacket and she ignored the pang of guilt as she raised the spear and skewered Ponche through the back. He gasped and stood up, wobbling on his knees as he turned to look at Neviya.

She stared at him. Maybe she'd missed something vital. She'd hoped it would have been quicker. As he stumbled forwards, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, his hands clamped round the shaft of the spear that was protruding out of his chest.

 _This is… surreal._ Neviya felt sick but as Ponche fell in a heap, she continued to ignore those feelings and yanked the spear from his back. She had no idea where his allies were – Neviya had noted everyone down, each tribute and every group that had formed. In her mind, she said a silent apology and carried on towards Linnea and Britta.

* * *

Maisley saw Ponche, face-down in the grass, and had to swallow the bile that threatened to rise from her stomach. She felt exposed out in the open. Watching an ally that she'd secured for her own protection suddenly die, as if he were nothing important, made her feel oddly guilty. It hadn't been as if he'd died in any way shape or form because of Maisley's actions, but she couldn't deny how close she had been beginning to feel towards all of them.

And now Ponche was dead.

Maisley hadn't expected it to be so difficult to get across to her allies. As soon as the gong had sounded, she'd tried to make her way across to Carys but had been swept to the side by Sheridan as she made a beeline for someone else. Maisley had to refocus. The other tributes right this second did not matter. She had a small backpack now over her shoulders with whatever was jangling around inside it. Carys was busy picking up whatever she could find – cramming them into her own khaki backpack.

 _I can't find Castor._

That was Maisley's first thought.

 _Shit._

That was Maisley's second thought.

The air was knocked from her as someone barrelled into Maisley, sending her into the grass. She coughed on mud and swore she'd also just eaten a firefly. As she flipped onto her back, she felt terror claw at her throat as she expected Chancellor or someone just as intimidating to be looming over her.

When she saw Spelt gawp at her, panic-stricken, Maisley's heart began to beat just a little less.

"I'm sorry," Spelt stammered. "I didn't see you there – I'm just – I –"

His words were coming out in a jumble and Maisley tried to get herself up from the grass but realised in his hand was a small blade. It wasn't pointing at her. Maisley hadn't really seen much of this boy but he didn't look like a killer.

She raised her hands and tried to smile kindly at him. "That's alright. You don't have any allies right?" Spelt nodded. "Then just go. Run whilst you can."

He seemed to suddenly notice the knife in his hand and took a lopsided step forwards, and then backwards, as if completely unaware of where he was. He nodded and turned to go, but before Maisley could even take another breath, Spelt was knocked down with a punch as Carys flew into him.

Maisley almost called out and told her to stop. That Spelt wasn't actually attacking her. That she was completely safe. But something held her tongue. And she did nothing as Carys's knife entered the back of his neck, and the poor boy gargled on his blood and fell silent.

"Carys…" Maisley said, voice barely above a whisper.

Her ally's eyes whirled round to focus in on Maisley and her face began to soften, but she couldn't deny the fear that was staring back at her, shot right through Carys as she gripped onto the knife, blood pooling around her fingers.

"I just…" she stuttered. "Maisley – I…"

"It's alright," Maisley found her voice, secured her confidence, and looked sadly down at Spelt. "You did what had to be done."

The two left the scene. Next job: find Castor.

* * *

Destan saw Chancellor's body in the grass and his mind blurred.

 _Fuckshitfuck._ What the hell had happened?!

He wanted to scream furiously but looked around as tributes continued to scatter and then focused his eyes back on the biggest threat in this entire Games just dead, nothing more than an empty shell in a heap amongst golden fireflies.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing but Destan couldn't allow himself the time to just stand there gawping at the body of Chancellor. He knew there was no way in hell that the girls would take him back at this point. He tried to see if he could spot Roarke but amongst all the bodies chaotically running around, he had no hope in finding him without venturing further in.

 _Well then…_ he held onto his spear firmly in his hand, tightened the strap of his backpack, and made a run for it towards the treeline.

Just like that, everything he'd tried to put into place had fallen apart. Maybe he only had himself to blame. But he wasn't about to risk his own neck now that Chancellor was dead. The idea of going it alone scared Destan, but it was better than the alternative. He needed time to rethink. To piece the fragments together of what had just shattered apart.

So he left. Alone.

* * *

"Iva."

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up tearfully, meeting the eyes of Henley.

"We have to go," she said. "Come on."

Iva looked once more at Spelt's body and rose to her feet. Her knees wobbled and her feet gave out and Henley had to catch her, lifting her back up. Iva wanted to cry but knew Henley was right, they had to leave right now. In the distance, Iva watched as someone disappeared between the trees by themselves and wished Spelt had just done that.

Why had he ventured towards the Cornucopia? It didn't make any sense.

Henley looked at her ally and wanted to slap her. Not cruelly. But they were being stupid just standing here. She had what she needed and in Iva's hand she held a weapon, reflecting the light from the moon. If this were anywhere else, Henley would have loved to revel in its majesty. But now was not the time to stargaze.

She led the way and spotted Damon near his pedestal. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Useful," Henley mumbled under her breath.

Iva noticed her ally and sped up, passing Henley and grabbing onto Damon. He had no idea why she looked so distraught but he held her and let her body shake in his arms.

"I didn't know you cared so much about Spelt," Henley said.

 _Was that the wrong thing to say?_ Right this moment, Henley almost didn't care.

They had to go.

Iva turned around and wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'll get over it. Don't worry about me."

"Then let's go!" Henley shouted.

Damon's finger raised and his eyes widened as the three turned to spot Linnea and Britta heading towards them. Both girls were already armed and fear tore right through their alliance as they turned tail and fled as quickly as they possibly could.

They expected the Career girls to give chase but when Henley looked over her shoulder, the two had turned around and headed back towards the Cornucopia.

Their alliance remained intact.

They'd survived the first step.

* * *

Albie continued to clasp tightly onto Armina's hand.

"Don't let go, alright?" she said as the two ventured closer towards the Cornucopia. Luckily for them, the Career girls seemed to be on the other side of the horn and they hadn't seen any of the boys. All they wanted to do was find Shual, grab some supplies, and leave.

No overthinking it. No trying to reinvent the wheel. Just get in, get out, think about what to do next as the chaos calmed down.

"Where do you reckon he is?" Armina asked.

Albie shrugged and bent down to pick up a water bottle, passing it to Armina who placed it in her bag. "It's not the largest area. I don't know what's past those trees but from what I can gather it seems pretty simple, for now." She was already trying to unpick the Arena. She didn't quite understand why she felt like she had to hold onto Armina so tightly, but part of her didn't want to let go.

She was worried about losing her.

Celestin Elan ran past the two of them, not even looking back, and Albie for a second felt her adrenaline kick in. It was an odd feeling, her body doing all its talking, not her mind. She was glad to see the back of the boy as he disappeared and the two friends continued forwards.

"Look!" Armina raised her arm and pointed in the direction of the open mouth to the Cornucopia. There, rummaging through crates but keeping an eye on his surroundings, was Shual.

Albie smiled. _Thank god._

 _Let's get out of here!_

She heard a faint whistle and for a moment, as they stepped towards their ally, she wondered what the noise was. Then a scream tore through her ears and as if by instinct, her hand let go of Armina's and she realised what had just happened.

Albie's entire mind whirred. Armina looked at her and then at the arrow protruding from her shoulder.

"Okay – okay – Armina – don't – don't-" Albie had no idea what she was trying to say. Right now, it wasn't a deadly wound. They could deal with it. They could-

Another arrow.

Armina fell face-down.

"What…?"

Albie looked stunned and behind Armina, a few feet away, Roarke was clumsily trying to restring the bow. It didn't look like he felt that confident with the weapon but he'd done enough. Armina was… _dead?!_

Albie bit back a sob and stumbled forwards. Roarke shot another arrow and it grazed her elbow. If it hurt, Albie didn't know, she hadn't the time to register anything except _I need to get out NOW!_

"SHUAL!" Her voice was louder than she'd ever heard it. "SHUALLLL!"

Her ally looked up and spotted Albie running and he pulled out the trident that was hidden from view behind the box. Albie knew Shual had no idea what he was doing with it but that didn't stop him from throwing it past Albie and in the general direction of Roarke.

"I'm sorry…" She heard a faint whisper from where she'd just been stood with Armina. When Albie looked back, the boy from Two was stood, looking over Armina's dead body. The trident had missed entirely but he wasn't focused on Albie anymore.

Albie didn't care if he was sorry. The anger replaced the sadness and ripped right through her.

Her logical mindset fell apart as she took a step back towards Roarke. A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around and she almost decked Shual right around the face.

"We have to go," he said, firmly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But we have to-"

"I can't just leave her…" Albie was shaking with anger as the tears lit up her eyelashes and trickled down the bridge of her nose.

She didn't recognise this version of herself. The one that now felt torn open.

Shual had to physically drag her across the grass until she caved, taking one last look at Armina, and finding her feet and allowing herself to run towards the trees.

 _I'm sorry, Armina._

 _I'm so sorry._

* * *

The area was slowly starting to thin out.

Sheridan watched as Maisley, Castor and Carys now fled the scene, disappearing into the trees. Without Ponche, it could only mean one thing, and she bowed her head silently to say goodbye.

He didn't deserve it. But neither did she. Sheridan couldn't allow her mind to go to that place.

There were still enough tributes in the surrounding area however for Sheridan to be unable to see everyone. Next to her, Bryce was consoling Sinta who was adamant she was alright, and Teak was a few paces away grabbing whatever supplies he could get his hands on.

"Where's Cel'?"

Sheridan looked at Sinta and in response to her question could do nothing but shrug her shoulders. Honestly, she had no idea. She couldn't see round the Cornucopia from where she stood and for all Sheridan knew he could be one of the tributes that had already died. She didn't know what to do with that thought. Although she didn't really know him, she knew what his death might do to their alliance and she didn't want to have to go through that.

Sheridan wasn't kidding herself. They had to leave. If they couldn't find everyone, then so be it.

 _I just have to be the one to say that._

There was a yell from somewhere in the distance and all eyes turned around. Altia had her arm around Celestin's shoulders, dragging him across the grass. Sheridan couldn't see that far but there was definitely something wrong with him. He was trying to smile, but it looked pained, and as Altia continued to help him across the grass, Sheridan hoped it wasn't bad enough of an injury to hold them back.

 _What a cold way of looking at things…_ Sheridan didn't like the thought, but accepted it all the same.

With the fear of losing an ally, Sinta snapped out of whatever she was under and stood up, almost pulling Bryce forwards with her.

"We have to help," she said.

Sheridan nodded. "Alright. Quickly, though."

When she took a step in their direction, however, from around the Cornucopia three figures arrived, side by side, all with weapons in their hands.

 _Fucking shit fuck._ "The Careers."

They looked intimidating. Linnea, Neviya and Britta, in a perfect line, moving towards Celestin and Altia. Bryce gasped and tried to run forwards, being pulled along by Sinta, but Sheridan stuck out of her arm and stopped the two from Seven.

"Don't be idiots," she snarled, forcing her voice to sound harsh because it was the only way they'd listen. "We can't take them."

"We can't just-"

"No, Sinta. This isn't like the Capitol, okay. You can't just smile away a situation. We. Have. To. Go."

Sinta looked at Bryce and he looked at her. She nodded sadly but Bryce just pointed and called out one name, a name etched with fear and worry. "TEAK!"

The boy from Five, having been a little bit ahead, did not stop himself from advancing to save his allies. In his mind, they had to be together, he had to protect the people he cared about.

He grabbed the other side of Celestin and Altia smiled thankfully. Sheridan had no choice. She ran towards them with Sinta and Bryce behind.

Maybe if she could just get there quick enough… maybe if the girls got bored… maybe if…

A spear tore through the air and impaled Teak straight through the back. Sinta's gut-wrenching cry that came as a response made Sheridan's heart break. Celestin stumbled forwards and Altia fell to the grass.

"CELESTIN! ALTIA! RUN!"

If Sheridan had to be the one to tell them what to do, then so be it. Teak was dead. It had happened. They could grieve later.

Celestin looked back at Altia. She had helped him. But the Career girls were getting even closer and he knew with his twisted ankle, if he tried to help Altia then… then…

"I'm so sorry," he said.

Altia just stared at him. Blankly at first, as if not registering what he just said. But when he started to hobble away, she tried to claw her way upwards and tripped over Teak's body, falling into the dirt with a _snap_ that broke her nose. As she tasted blood in her mouth and saw through her hair that Sheridan was wrapping her arms around Celestin, she wanted to scream and cry and furiously label them traitors.

But she understood. If they tried to help her, then they might die.

And with her here, she was enough of a distraction for them to get away.

"I'm sorry, Teak," Altia said, biting her lip and closing her eyes tightly. "I'm sorry, Damon."

The sword sliced through her back and for Altia's sake, her death was quick.

Britta pulled the sword free and then looked at Teak's body.

"Make sure you grab your spear," she said to Linnea, who nodded grimly.

The others ran away, into the trees.

A six-person alliance down to four.

And one of them a killer.

* * *

Roarke had killed.

He'd actually murdered another human being.

He was looking over Chancellor's body and felt the bow in his hand. It was strange. This was the weapon that Chancellor had been most talented at but it had been Roarke who had used it to kill someone else.

He'd done what he'd signed up for. Over the course of the Capitol, he'd begun to think if he could actually go through with it. But in the heat of the moment his training came back to him and he just… did it.

And now Armina was dead.

Roarke had no idea where Destan was and had no desire to go and find him. The entire area was now empty save for himself, the six bodies, and he knew Linnea, Neviya and Britta couldn't be far behind him.

 _Time to face the music._

Roarke wasn't giving up on his life, but he didn't run for the trees either. Sure, maybe he could escape, try and find Destan if he wasn't also dead, and team up to take out the girls. But now that the one person he had been scared of more than anything was actually one of the first to be killed, something inside Roarke reiterated how absolutely, mind-numbingly stupid he had been.

He was willing to take this risk.

He had to for his own sake.

When he spotted the three girls, he didn't run, he walked towards them.

He almost stumbled over another body but didn't waste a second to look at whoever the poor victim was. Roarke continued towards them and when Neviya looked up, he stopped in his tracks.

"Linnea, Britta," Neviya said, tapping Britta's arm. "Look."

They all gazed over and Roarke continued, trying to ignore the fear gnawing away inside of him as he got closer and closer and all three of them stood, side by side before him.

"Wait just one second," Britta said.

Neviya looked at her but Linnea shook her head before she could say anything.

Roarke halted. He felt the quiver of arrows on his back and the bow in his hand. He could, if he wanted to, take out one of the strongest competitors in this Games. But he couldn't. Because they were his friends. Or least one of them was. He'd give anything to rewrite what had happened and start over.

"Where's the others?" Britta said, lifting her sword. "Chancellor had his fill?"

Linnea looked nervously around, ready for the psycho to pounce from the shadows. Roarke just shook his head and a nervous laugh broke free from his dry lips.

"He's dead."

"What?!" All three girls spoke at the same time.

Roarke laughed again. "He's dead," he repeated. "I don't know how or who, but seems like your plan worked, Britta. Someone killed him."

Britta laughed and clapped her hands over her mouth. She looked at Linnea who looked back and they both just shook their heads incredulously. "Is it bad that makes me – I don't know. I can't believe it."

"Sucks for him." Linnea shrugged her shoulders. "Where's Destan?"

Roarke shook his head and continued to move ever so closer towards the girls. "I'm not sure. It's just me."

"You get anyone?" Neviya now spoke, voice seemingly pained by seeing Roarke so close to them all.

Roarke nodded. "Girl from Eight. You?"

"Boy from Five," Linnea said.

"Girl from Twelve," Britta said.

Neviya bowed her head. "Boy from Eleven."

 _So, we're all killers._

Roarke pictured them all that first day, sat around the table, laughing and giggling and pretending that their situation could be mistaken for lunch-time at school. The best of friends making a spectacle of themselves but loving it all the same.

The laughter, the camaraderie, the _light,_ none of it mattered.

They were all murderers.

"Why are you here?" Britta asked.

"You know why, Britta." Neviya spoke before Roarke could answer. She looked at her allies. "We could use him."

Roarke looked at Neviya and didn't like the way she had said _use_ him. It wasn't because she _wanted_ him. It wasn't because she _missed_ him. No – she could _use_ him.

What did that mean?

The girls whispered something between them and Roarke waited nervously. Would he have to use this bow to try and get away if they made the choice to get rid of him? Or would they welcome him with open arms and they could pretend for however long that their reunion actually stood a chance?

When they stopped talking, Roarke readied his hand to grab an arrow just in case.

Britta nodded her head and grinned at him. "Welcome back, Roarke."

He closed the gap between them. Linnea clapped him on the back. Britta ruffled his hair. Neviya just looked at him, a small smile on her face.

"Welcome back," she said.

Roarke nodded his head.

The bloodbath was over and here he was, with the girls, and in a twisted way he couldn't be happier.

Whatever Neviya meant about using him, in this moment, Roarke did not care.

 _I'm back._

And he was ready to fight.

* * *

 **24th:** Chancellor Darrian, District One Male.  
 **23rd:** Ponche Garland, District Eleven Male.  
 **22nd:** Spelt Brassard, District Nine Male.  
 **21st:** Armina Rione, District Eight Female.  
 **20th:** Teak Underwood, District Five Male.  
 **19th:** Altia Wright, District Twelve Female.

* * *

 **Aaaand there we go!**

 **I actually wrote this all straight after Launch, but I promised Thursday! (and it's nearly midnight in the UK so that counts, I did not specify which Thursday kiss kiss.) The next chapter is also done so woohoo getting ahead!**

 **Okay so. Sucks to kill these six and I'm sure to the submitters, it's difficult seeing them be the first to go, especially in a story where each tribute really was given the time to grow and flourish and all the readers got to know them well. But each went for specific reasons and I'm happy with the choices I made. Apologies again, I really love each and every character here.**

 **I hope this chapter was okay. Bloodbaths are tricky. There's so much going on but I wanted to also touch base with everyone and get all the necessary action as part of the chapter too. It was difficult, but, I hope you liked it!**

 **Well, the Games have officially started. Six down, seventeen more to go :)**


	28. The Aftermath

**Chapter Twenty-Eight.**

* * *

From their place around the Cornucopia, the trees had looked so densely packed together that they seemed to touch each other in a woodland embrace.

As soon as Maisley led her allies through the thicket however, the trees became more spacious, allowing for Carys to lean against one and rest her head solemnly against the bark.

"I need a moment," Carys said, breathing in and out harshly.

Maisley looked at her and then back to where they'd just ran from. "I don't think we have a minute-"

"Maisley," Castor placed a hand on her shoulder and tilted his head towards where Carys stood, head bowed, staring at the ground.

 _Oh._ She looked at their ally and the impatience and fear she felt subsided for a moment. She thought of Spelt and the guilt that came alongside what she'd done – or, to put it correctly, what she hadn't done – and took a step towards Carys.

"I'm sorry," she said, not quite touching Carys, but being close enough to let her know she was there. "As I said, you did what you had to do."

Carys nodded her head stiffly and continued to stare at the ground. "I just – I'll be fine. What else did I expect coming here?"

"I'm sure he didn't suffer," Castor said kindly. "You protected Maisley. She's right – you did what you had to do."

 _If only they knew._ It wasn't a huge deal her not stopping Carys from killing Spelt. For all Maisley knew it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. But in Maisley's mind it was a tribute down. And if she wanted a chance of making it home when the odds were stacked against her, she had to think like that.

"Can I do anything?" Maisley asked.

Carys looked up and blinked at her, the beginnings of tears lighting up her eyelashes. For a moment, her face curled up in something that resembled anger, but she sighed and shook her head. "You're right. We need to go. We're too close to the Cornucopia."

Castor watched Maisley grab onto Carys' hand, squeeze it, and comfort the girl enough to lead her back to their little group, trailing through the forest.

His mind went to Ponche and his heart throbbed with sadness. Maisley and Carys quite honestly did not know him like Castor did. Sure, he'd been quiet, but quiet wasn't a bad thing. Sometimes, and he'd seen it enough in Eight, the louder more confident people thought introverted was synonymous with weird and distant.

It wasn't. Castor did not believe that. Ponche was just Ponche.

And now he was dead.

He took a sip of water and shook the bottle in front of Maisley. She politely took it, drank a tiny amount, and handed it to Carys. For the next few minutes, they remained in complete silence, a procession moving through the foreboding forest.

Above the trees, the stars were bright and twinkling, the moon enormous as if a beacon guiding them forwards. For now, the Arena seemed relatively simple and Castor, Maisley and Carys did not mind that. They'd seen enough Games to know there would be more in store, but right now they just wanted to clear enough space between themselves and the starting area and find somewhere to rest up and recuperate.

Carys knew she would be fine. She just had to be. If she began to overthink things, then her mind would run away with itself and she'd be in danger from losing it. For someone who was so emotional, she was doing everything she had in her power to contain herself. Though all she could hear was the squelch of Spelt's skin parting as the knife stole his life from him, Carys continued to lead her alliance through the trees. If she was leading, then she was distracted. If they continued moving, then her mind wouldn't allow itself to dwell.

 _Snap._

Castor stopped in his tracks. Maisley and Carys were continuing. He almost spoke too loudly but stopped himself when there was another _snap_ followed by voices that overlapped each other.

"Mais'," he tried to whisper as loud as he could but she'd already heard, tapping Carys on the back to stop. "Don't move."

Castor waited with bated breath and held onto the short-sword he had in his hands. He had no idea really how to use it but he would for Maisley and Carys. They'd lost Ponche – they would not lose anyone else.

The voices grew louder as the small group broke through from a nearby tree and halted as soon as their eyes fell upon Carys, Maisley and Castor.

"Oh…" Damon said, letting out a breath, his face paling immediately.

Castor looked at Carys and then at Maisley. Carys, the only one who had killed so far in their alliance, looked panicked but resolved as she held the knife out in front of her. Maisley took a step back and Castor moved towards her, shielding her from the group that had just arrived.

It wasn't Damon that spoke next, however. Henley from Five moved forwards and held her hands out, knife handle pointed outwards, the sharp edge turned away.

"We don't want to do anything…" Henley said, cautiously, lowering her knife. "Please. It's too early. Just let us go."

Castor looked at Henley's allies, Iva and Damon, and both of them looked just as scared as he knew Maisley, Carys and himself felt. In a tribute's viewpoint, they were the enemy. But he didn't see that in them. He only saw another group fleeing the bloodbath and trying to find somewhere to rest up.

"Carys," Castor said. "Let's just move on."

"What?" she said.

"Do you plan on taking them on, risking everything?"

She looked back at Maisley, then up at Castor, and then looked over at Henley, Iva and Damon. She bit her lip sadly as she focused on Iva especially. _Spelt, also from Nine._ Carys shook her head and tried to smile at Henley. "Let's just call it a mutual agreement to let each other go this once?"

 _This once._ Carys had no intention really of fighting them. But the Capitol eventually would not be satisfied with peacefully allowing other alliances to go. However, the bloodbath had just happened, so Carys was confident they wouldn't mind just this once.

At least it made her sound willing to fulfil her role and fight.

"Thank you." This time it was Iva who spoke and she looked at Carys with a smile. "Good luck out there."

Carys couldn't reply because all she saw was Spelt when she looked at Iva. Maisley moved forwards from Castor, putting a bit of space between her and him so it didn't look completely like she was shielding herself away. It was a delicate balance she was trying to find.

"Good luck too," Maisley said.

Carys continued leading the way as Henley, Damon and Iva disappeared into the thickness of the trees. They all knew as the days began to blend into one, that another encounter could not, and most likely would not, end so peacefully.

But they were all tired. They needed to find somewhere to stay, piece together their thoughts, and plan their next move.

 _I'm sorry, Ponche,_ Castor thought. He would do this in memory of him.

They all would.

But more importantly, as Carys, Maisley and Castor continued walking, they would do this for themselves.

* * *

Destan kicked a rock and cursed loudly as pain cut through his big toe.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been wandering through the trees but the moonlit forest seemed endless. Even Destan couldn't ignore the fact that it looked beautiful, and especially coming from Four where he'd never been exposed to this type of nature before, but he didn't allow himself the time to sit back and gaze at the Arena.

The trees were beginning to thin, trunks taller and sleeker as they veered off into the sky. He could barely see the treetops as he tried to look up and was dazzled by the blanket of stars. He had no idea really where he was going or which direction he'd settled on, but there was one thing Destan knew he could not do.

He could not become boring.

As he dragged his spear along the ground, he thought about the cameras that might be honing in on his position, broadcasting his face to the whole of Panem but especially the people in the Capitol. He'd promised the Gamemakers a show and here he was: a loner who'd lost the biggest threat in the Games right from the off.

 _What a show I'm giving…_ he thought begrudgingly.

Right now, he could be afforded the time to relax. But it couldn't last. He had to think of something worthwhile to show the crowds at home. If anything, he also needed the distraction. Being alone in the woods trained or untrained left him feeling slightly scared of the wall of darkness that crept into his peripheral vision. Anyone or any _thing_ could be out there. And he was all alone.

He thought about Roarke as he took a swig of water and scoffed down a dry cracker. The six cannons that had ripped through the forest could be anyone. Or at least, five of them could be anyone. Chancellor's death marked off a single cannon.

Was Roarke dead? Or was he somewhere in the forest all by himself?

Part of Destan wished to find him. Part of Destan hoped he was gone and no longer an issue for him. As his mind continued to consider the way he felt about his one and only ally now lost to the Arena, he heard something behind him and almost jumped out of his skin.

A crunch of leaves followed by the looming figure of another tribute as they stepped from in front of a tree, staring eye to eye with Destan.

 _Fuck._ Destan felt the sweat pool round his fingers as he held onto the spear tightly. _Fuck._

"Lost?"

The voice was gruff and as the stars lit up his face, Destan recognised the boy from Three, Nikos. Another loner.

Destan plastered on the carefree persona he'd tried to envisage himself being so professional at doing in front of the untrained tributes. He nodded his head and laughed. "Yep. Can't tell which way's up or down in here."

"Likewise," Nikos said, gripping the knife firmly in his hand. Destan became painfully aware that despite his training, Nikos was a big guy. Bigger than him. "Surprised to see you alone. Where's child-killer?"

"Dead," Destan said, dismissively, as if he didn't care. "His loss, our gain, I suppose."

"What a lovely way of perceiving one's allies," Nikos said. "I guess it's good to see the back of someone like him."

"Indeed."

The conversation felt stilted. As Nikos continued to just stare at him, a million and one ways this situation could unravel flipped like pages in a book through Destan's mind. When he pictured his death, he turned the next page, and suddenly an idea sparked through his head. A way to be entertaining to the crowds, reassemble some kind of control, and more importantly… not die.

He wasn't so keen on the idea of dying.

"So, are we going to do this or what?" Nikos said, holding his knife outwards. "Can't say I'm all that pleased at the idea of taking on someone that's trained, but guess I've got no choice."

Destan's plan solidified and he shook his head. "Maybe you do."

"What?" Nikos' grip seemed to slacken slightly. As if suddenly relieved at the idea of not having to fight so early. "What do you mean?"

"Chancellor might be dead but there's still a Career pack that exists in this Arena. And I bet those six cannons were predominately because of them. I can't take them on alone. Neither can you. Neither can anyone really."

"You want me to team up with you?" Nikos interrupted before Destan could make the offer, which annoyed the boy from Four, but he held his tongue and nodded with a smile. "Just us two?"

 _Good point._

"I can't be the only one that would see the benefit of getting rid of them. If we have to fight Nikos, then we will fight. But I don't see why we shouldn't take the opportunity to thin the talent just a little bit and even it out a bit more."

Nikos laughed. "You do realise you're one of them."

Destan shrugged his shoulders. "Not anymore. I can't beat them on my own. So, are you in?"

The plan was shaky at best, but without Chancellor or Roarke, and without a single chance that the girls would ever take him back, the only way forwards was to create an alliance on the fly that could perhaps tackle the biggest threat in the Games.

And if anything, in the short term, it stopped him having to fight Nikos. Because Destan, for all his mock bravado, wasn't actually sure he could do it with or without his training.

When Nikos nodded, Destan felt the breath go from his lungs and he sighed in relief, lowering his spear. He remained wary and distant from Nikos until from opposite him, the hulking boy from Three lowered his knife and bridged the gap between the two of them.

Destan thought about shaking his hand but that seemed forced. No point in pretending they were anything more than a temporary team-up.

"Any idea where some of the other tributes are?" Destan asked.

Nikos paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded. "I have some idea."

 _Good._ Time to take down the girls.

* * *

"I'm hungry," Britta said.

Linnea looked at Britta and threw a loaf of bread at her. "Go crazy."

"I could do with a steak." Britta looked up at the sky, as if pleading. "Or maybe some macarons."

"Where the hell do you think we are?" Neviya asked, though not unkindly.

The three girls laughed as they rifled through their supplies. Although surrounding them, an air of unease and cold reality spread thick, they were still able to chat as if they hadn't killed innocent kids a few hours ago.

Roarke returned from where he'd been scouting at the treeline and shook his head as the girls looked up at him intently. "Nothing. I don't think anyone's set up camp this close."

"Not that I'm fussed about going hunting, but I guess we should do _something_ soon," Linnea said. "At least the bodies have been cleared."

Although it felt slightly callous dismissing them as bodies, it was a relief for all four of them that the hovercrafts had picked them all up. They'd piled them far from the Cornucopia, in a bloody heap to be collected. They'd all paused at the sight of Chancellor's corpse amongst the fireflies, the jet-black grass caressing his pallid cheeks.

Linnea had felt a pang of sadness and felt confused by the feeling. If Destan hadn't fucked things up, they'd have gone for him anyway. The only question remaining was who had killed the biggest threat in the Games. If Linnea ever found out, she'd say a silent congratulations to them. And a thank-you.

From where they now sat, Roarke fell into the grass and brought his knees up to his chin. It was cold and the night-time was confusing because he'd only been awake maybe six or so hours.

In the distance, he could hear birds chirping but aside from that, the dense canopy of lush greenery blocked everything else out. The Arena was an enigma and Roarke didn't really have any desire right this second to explore anything further.

He would, eventually. Being back with the girls had reinvigorated him. He was finally beginning to feel himself with every laugh and joke that lightened the mood.

The loaf of bread that Britta cradled only made him smile more.

Neviya moved closer to Roarke and collapsed into the grass a few inches from him, sorting through another backpack that the Careers had. They really had so many supplies that had been left with the rest of the tributes now gone. There was so much to go through.

"Could be useful," Neviya ruminated as she pulled out a thermometer. "Where would you like this to go, Roarke?"

He looked at her and when Neviya spat out laughing, Roarke couldn't help himself. "If I ever need to use that, I'm opting for the mouth."

"Good choice."

Neviya tossed it aside and took out a pack of bandages. Those were definitely useful and Neviya stuffed them into another pack that she was keeping for essentials. Roarke just watched her, the red curls caressing her face, the freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks. He'd found a true friend in her and again felt immense guilt at the silly choices he'd made.

He felt like Linnea – if he could find out who had killed Chancellor, he would shake their hand.

"We need to talk," Neviya finally said, zipping up the bag and resting her eyes on Roarke.

He gulped. Roarke knew something was coming. "We do."

Neviya arched an eyebrow and smiled.

"About what?" Roarke continued, grinning back.

Neviya beckoned the girls over and the four of them sat in a circle. Linnea and Britta had momentarily discussed this and were allowing Neviya, who was definitely closest with Roarke, to lead the conversation. Usually she didn't mind, but it felt odd putting all the pieces of her rational mindset into an actual, tangible concept now she was in the Arena. For all their training, nothing could have prepared them for the real, chaotic thing.

"Before I start, did Destan see you?"

Roarke thought about it for a moment but shook his head. "He couldn't have. And if he did, it was before I approached you three."

Neviya smiled. "Good. That's good."

Roarke knew where this was finally going and to be honest, he couldn't blame them. For all the camaraderie they had shared, he had made silly choices and it was time for him to pay them back to the girls and do something for them. He was the only one in a position to do so. If they'd asked Roarke a few days ago, he would have been too scared. But now he was finding his feet. So even though the question wasn't out there, Roarke had already agreed to it.

"Destan isn't that much of a threat. By himself, he might be taken out anyway by someone-"

"Not much of a threat?" Britta laughed, interrupting Neviya. "The girl from Six could probably take him."

"Don't be silly," Linnea said. "He's still trained."

Neviya looked at her two allies and rolled her eyes. "Going to let me finish?"

Britta nodded her head, biting her lip to stop herself from talking.

"He's still a trained tribute and our biggest competition out there. And if he didn't see you, Roarke, then he might still buy into the fact that you're on his side." Neviya sighed as she stopped speaking, as if conflicted with what she was about to ask, but Roarke didn't care. As he placed a hand atop hers, he squeezed it gently.

"It's okay, Nev'," Roarke said. "What do you need me to do?"

She smiled as she met his eyes. "Bring him to us. Find him, convince him that you need to fight us, continue to play the part of the scared ally – no offence – and then we'll have got rid of the only other Career out there that isn't sat with us right this second."

"You're more than capable," Linnea said kindly. "And we have to start thinking strategically if we're going to make it to the final four."

 _The final four._

He couldn't imagine what would then have to happen if they did indeed make it that far, the four of them, but the thought was for another time. Britta, Linnea and Neviya looked at him but he'd already made his decision and nodded, standing up with his bow and quiver of arrows and a backpack slung over his other shoulder.

"You don't have to go right now," Linnea said.

"Have some bread, it's pretty good," Britta said, ripping into another slice. "Could do with some meat." Britta stared again at the sky, eyes pleading with invisible cameras. "Or cheese?"

Roarke looked back at Linnea and Neviya whilst Britta begged to the food Gods. He shrugged and continued standing. "Might as well get on with it. I promise I won't let you down."

"We know you won't," Neviya said. "Good luck, Roarke."

"Maybe try to act like you'll see me again," Roarke joked, though he felt nervous at the thought of not returning. "It's Destan. How difficult can it be?"

For the girls in front of him, he would do anything.

He would prove to them that they'd made the right decision taking him back and not just killing him where he stood. If this was their plan, then he would be the spark that brought it to life.

Time to take down Destan.

* * *

Shual was worried.

Albie had given up trying to fight against him and storm back towards the Cornucopia, but that didn't dissipate his anxiety over what had become of his ally. Deep down, Shual knew the lingering sadness that clawed at him was because of Armina's death, but he also wasn't kidding himself. He did not know Armina that well.

Perhaps it was the idea that someone – an innocent, fifteen-year-old girl – had died, rather than the actual person that had fallen. It made him feel slightly guilty but then again, the Games were the Games. This was the way.

He'd tried talking to Albie but she wasn't having any of it. A simple conversation had been what had entranced Shual about the girl. Her mind. Her way of thinking. The fact that there didn't seem to be any baggage that came along with teaming up with one of the smartest people he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

It was so many ticks on the mental list he'd created of the person he'd wanted to find. And now here she was, stomping away, swiping branches and flowers that got in her face and angrily scowling at the forest before her.

He thought about what he'd do if Carys died. She wasn't his ally, but what if one of those six cannons had been hers? Would he understand a bit more about what Albie was going through? Or was she just not the person he'd thought she was?

 _Have I made the wrong choice?_

He held back from allowing that thought to find anchor in his mind and hurried to join Albie, swiftly walking by her side as they entered the forest clearing, trees separating apart to reveal something vastly different from the repetitiveness they'd encountered so far.

"Shelter," Albie said, the first word he'd heard for a while, and it was good to see her thinking in terms of their survival. "C'mon."

In the treetops, wooden huts had been erected, with rickety bridges between them and a rope swing here and there. It looked mightily impressive but maybe that was because Shual had only seen greenery for the past few hours. The treetop village also looked weak and shaky. As if putting a foot on a floorboard would send him toppling down to the ground.

Albie led the way to a ladder that hung from the nearest house a few feet in the air. It didn't look too high but there were other huts that were settled nearer towards the canopy, only accessible through more windswept ladders that Shual did not feel confident using. He followed her as she climbed up and he waited patiently at the bottom until she'd cleared the ladder, crawling into the first hut.

When he reached the entranceway, he saw her sat in the corner, knees up to her chin, staring at him with eyes that did not look like Albie's.

"I'm sorry, Shual," she muttered. "I don't know what I'm doing – what I'm feeling. I didn't even know Armina that well. Not really."

Shual crawled over to her. He didn't quite attempt an act of comfort, partly because he had no idea really how to do that, and also because he wasn't sure it was appropriate for how Albie was feeling, but he sat by her side as closely as he could.

"I don't think either of you, for as much as you might have thought you were, had actually accepted what was going to be happening. And she died so quickly. It was out of your control."

Albie lifted her hand and looked at it. "I'm shaking. Actually shaking. And it's not because I'm cold, or nervous, or anything like that. I'm furious, Shual. I don't think I've ever felt like this before and it scares me. So, so much. I did not know Armina but the thought of her being killed – just shot down, whilst my hand was still in hers, it feels so wrong. And I can't control the way I feel about that."

 _I might have a problem._ Shual sympathised with Albie but he hadn't pictured her being the one that would lose their sense of realistic control. If anyone, he thought it would be Armina. But it was her death that had triggered this response in Albie and Shual just did not know what to do. He honestly didn't.

"What scares me most, Shual. What really scares me is…" Albie's eyes began to tear up and she pulled her hand back, burying it in her lap. "…I want to kill him. Roarke. I want to kill all of them. Everything they stand for and everything they've done to people who didn't choose to be here. Isn't that fucked up? They're still kids. Teenagers my age. And I could honestly say right now that I'd happily go and murder them and I'm not sure if I'd feel bad doing it."

"You would," Shual said. "Don't even let your mind go there. You're angry and upset but there is no way the Albie I know would ever, in a million years, feel _good_ about killing someone. Regardless of who that person is."

If it had been a few days ago, Albie would have recoiled at the idea of Shual putting out there for the whole of Panem to see that she wasn't a willing candidate in these Games. She'd told Nikos off for threatening the image she was trying to convey. She'd been worried that letting him in would get in the way of what needed doing.

Something so simple as Roarke's arrow, a whistle in the air, and now that desire to uphold who she'd always been had fallen apart completely. The walls her mother had built up inside her were tumbling down. If it had been in any other way, she would have felt free.

But if anything, Albie just felt more trapped.

"I don't know what to do," Albie confessed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm here," Shual said, shuffling ever so closer to his ally. "And we can get through this together. But we can't have you thinking like this – if we go after a trained tribute, someone who knows what they're doing, then we're screwed. We can't go on the attack blindly, without thinking about it."

Albie paused and looked at Shual. She felt her hand shaking, the fury like vipers curling in her stomach, and thought harder about what he'd just said. Shual didn't know what he'd done, but judging by the look she gave him, he regretted it immediately.

"Then we'll think carefully about it. And then we can."

Shual would have enjoyed more than anything to ride these Games through under the radar, but he also knew that the Gamemakers would never let that happen. If Albie could control her emotions like he truly believed she was able to, and they could piece together a reasonable, logical way of approaching an attack, then he had to be willing to do so.

It went against every instinct in his body, but just by being in the Games, he was out of his comfort zone.

"Alright," Shual said, nodding. "Let's think about it. We can't be stupid about this."

Albie's anger could now be channelled through sound logic. Perhaps she'd found the perfect blend of both sides to her. A way to feel like Albie again.

* * *

Sinta looked at her hands.

In the glistening waters of the pond her alliance had found, she submerged them once more and scrubbed into her knuckles, between her fingers and over her palms. When she raised them and saw the red, the horrible red, still etched into her skin, she cried aloud in frustration and shoved them even deeper into the waters.

She was a murderer. It didn't matter that the person she'd killed was Chancellor, that if she hadn't have done it then maybe he would have killed someone she cared about or even herself, it was still _murder._

How could she look at herself the same way ever again?

From behind her, a little bit further back at the base of the woodland incline, Bryce stood next to Sheridan and sighed as he glanced over at the back of Sinta.

"I don't know what to do," Bryce said sadly.

"This might sound harsh but she has to get over it," Sheridan said, not unkindly as she too gazed over at Sinta with worry and pity for the beacon that had always been their leader. "I don't know what she expected coming here. Does she want to win?"

"Of course she does," Bryce said.

Sheridan sighed. "Then she has to get over it. Not just for her sake, but ours. Selfish maybe, but that's just the way it is."

"I'll go and talk to her."

Bryce took tentative steps towards Sinta. Her hair looked frazzled and as she scrubbed even harder underneath the placid depths of the pond, Bryce felt unsure of himself and stopped momentarily. He could relate to both Sinta and Sheridan. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to know that you were the one that had murdered another teenager – Chancellor or not. But then Sheridan was right and maybe it was selfish but Sinta had always pledged her allegiance to this alliance and had said she'd do everything it took to help them in the Arena.

He understood that it must be harder, now that they were here, to actually put that into practice. She had hugged him that morning, in the Capitol – _was that really only this morning,_ Bryce thought for a second – and now she needed him. That was how their relationship worked. A cycle of who needed who most.

Bryce took a step closer to Sinta and lowered himself down to her level. He put out a comforting hand and placed it on her shoulder. Sinta jumped, looked over at Bryce, and where there had always been a smile, Bryce was meant with the teary eyes and twisted frown of a girl with blood literally seeped into her hands.

"Don't touch me," Sinta snapped. Then she realised what she'd said, bowed her head, and sniffled. "Please. Bryce. Not now."

At the base of a nearby oak tree, Celestin observed Bryce mumble an apology and shuffle back towards Sheridan awkwardly, brushing past her to slip down the trunk of another tree and place his chin against his knees.

Sheridan glanced over at him and Celestin just shrugged his shoulders. She looked back over at Sinta and then found her own tree to rest at.

The absence of Teak and Altia felt strange. Celestin didn't really know Teak but he had always been close to Sinta and Bryce. Clearly, they were now so connected with each other, that perhaps Teak had already become an afterthought of the Games. He didn't blame them for doing so.

Altia on the other hand… _yeah, that sucks._ Celestin knew that if he'd tried to help her, they would have both died. He'd been a prat and fallen over a backpack strap, twisting his ankle and almost landing on a knife. Though the embarrassment had only lasted a few seconds in the heat of the bloodbath, he now felt an idiot as his ankle throbbed painfully.

He hated that he was now on the back foot with a disadvantage that could actually get in the way of his chances. And he also hated the fact that, when he thought of what he'd done to Altia, the guilt was squashed by layer upon layer of the adrenaline over the fact that he'd actually made it out alive. He was still surviving.

 _If only Honora could see me now,_ Celestin thought, then foolishly realised that around him there were definitely cameras broadcasting his face to his manor's living room area. He tried to smile and wondered if his sister would see it and realise it was for her. He didn't want her to think that the Celestin she'd always known was giving up. Because he wasn't. Injured ankle or not, like hell was he about to roll over and die.

It was why he looked at Sinta and almost felt annoyed at her wallowing. If she kept that up for longer, then it would get in the way. Sheridan surely knew that. And Bryce for all his puppy-dog eyes and fearful whimpering, he was finding his feet and Celestin admired that about him.

 _Is our leader actually going to become the one thing that drags us down?_ The thought was crazy to Celestin, but painfully honest of a future that he could not allow to happen.

All four of them, from their separate positions near to the pond, looked up at the _ding, ding_ that filled the silence. Even Sinta, who was still adamant that blood was covering her hands, stopped as a parachute drifted gently in the night-time breeze and a canister landed at her feet.

"Oh," she said, quietly. She looked at the label at the _7_ that was written in black ink and glanced at the eyes of her allies that were around her. "Bryce. It's for us."

As Bryce shuffled over, she saw more writing and squinted her eyes to make out the letters.

 _You did what you had to. Don't let your reaction become the reason why you lose another friend._

Her mind suddenly brought forth the image of Teak smiling and even Altia's tentative grin – both alive and well, a group in the Training Hall – and the anger and fear and grief over her own loss of self was replaced by overwhelming guilt for the fact she'd just forgotten about their deaths.

When Bryce fell down next to her, she looked at him and wrapped her arms round his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Bryce. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he said, placing a hand on her back. "I'm still here. We're all in this together, Sinta. But you can't shut us out."

"He's right," Sheridan said.

"I just don't think I can be like I was – it just feels so strange. I know I can't let myself fall apart over this, but I never knew it would be this hard. I think we all just kidded ourselves about what was going to happen and now that it has –"

Sinta blinked away her tears and continued to embrace Bryce. Sheridan looked at the canister and felt rude prying but as both weren't doing anything, she popped the lid off and found four thick-crusted bread rolls and a hot, steaming flask of soup.

They didn't have much in terms of food and Sheridan realised as she looked down at it, that this could potentially be it. She tightened the lid again and ripped half of a bread roll, splitting the chunk into four pieces and sharing it around.

As Celestin thanked her and ripped into his, and Bryce and Sinta sat next to each other, staring into the pond, Sheridan realised with stunning reality that perhaps that she was now the leader of this group.

If she was the only one willing to make the tough choices, then she was willing to step up.

She'd do everything she could to bring back the Sinta she knew, but Sheridan had to admit to herself that she would never return fully. She thought of Saraya and what she would do if ever there was a time where the kindest girl she'd ever met could no longer smile. When she looked down at the frown and tears on Sinta's face, she felt pain like no other.

She would do her best. For all of them.

If she had to lead, then so be it.

She would do everything in her power to keep them all alive.

For however long it could last.

* * *

 **Quickly checked back to have a look at my planning for this and yep, this is the only non-death chapter we've got. Which I've always preferred straight out of the bloodbath – a bit slower paced, things still developing and changing however so there's bits happening here and there for alliances, characterisation and plot.**

 **I am not a fan of complicated Arenas. There isn't going to be loads going on with this because for me, a story is the tributes and what they are doing. That's just my personal preference really. There's more to this than just a forest, but yeah… I haven't gone way out of the box with this Arena.**

 **Thanks for reading guys!**


	29. Paper Thin

**Chapter Twenty-Nine.**

* * *

Damon didn't just see the dark around them and in the sky, he felt it with every step and found himself becoming more and more fearful the further they ventured through the woods.

He didn't tell Henley nor Iva that his heart pumped furiously in his chest, his palms sweated and his knees knocked together. Damon didn't want to be seen as a liability. Someone dragging them down. He wanted to be a strong member of this alliance, he _really_ did, but that didn't change the fact he didn't feel like it.

And the darkness was making it so much worse.

Occasionally, a cloud of gold would drift on by, gentle fireflies flittering through the tall grass and delicately touching the leaves. It was beautiful and offered a second's respite from the cloying sheet of black. He wondered what his father thought of him, quivering in the woods, a few paces behind his two stronger, more determined allies. Surely, he found him a disappointment. It was his father's fault he was both scared and used to the dark. All those years of punishment – who'd have thought the Arena would be like this?

"Guys, wait up!" Damon hurried forwards, ignoring the fear in his chest and smiled as the girls turned their heads. "Sorry. Nerves playing on me." Damon wasn't a liar. He'd learnt to shed the cocky bravado he had always tried to smother himself under in the face of new people. Strangers always saw through it anyway – into the awkward yet cheerful soul that lay just at the surface.

Iva grinned, though sadly, Spelt's death still playing on her mind. "That's okay, Damon. Hopefully we'll find somewhere to rest."

Henley on the other hand hardly reacted to what Damon had to say. She hated the fact that she was starting to see him as a liability but the second that she'd realised he had just stood there, on the plate, shivering like a wet blanket, he'd already sealed his fate as the weakest one here. He'd gone against their plan to gather some supplies and make it out of there.

At least Iva had done her bit. Yeah, she'd been distracted by Spelt's death, but Henley wasn't heartless. She'd hugged her ally. Someone she was even beginning to feel could be a friend. And Damon wasn't a bad person – just someone that hadn't adapted well to this situation.

 _If we had weeks to adjust, then maybe he'd get there. But we don't. We're now in this. Slap bang in the middle of it._

Henley turned around as Damon clung to the other side of Iva. The two broke into a small conversation that Henley barely picked up nor cared to listen to. Truthfully, she knew they only really liked her because of what she provided the alliance. Back in Five, she'd hated the idea of only being used for her skills or her intelligence; now she didn't mind it. It made her feel somewhat confident in her place in the Games.

That she had a chance.

"Can you smell that?"

Iva's question caused Henley to stop in her tracks. As they looked closely through the next crop of trees, she could see little glimpses of something. And there definitely was the smell of something. Something charring and burnt. _Smoke?_

Damon rushed forwards gleefully. His legs were hurting. He had a stitch in the side of his abdomen. Basically, he just wanted to have a good night's rest. Iva sped up to join him and Henley now brought up the rear of their group. She had a club in her hand and held it tightly, suspicion always there on the edge, waiting to envelop her, as she stepped through the treeline.

Atop a bed of lush green grass, at the end of a winding cobbled path, sat a quaint looking cottage. Billowing from the chimney, a plume of light-grey smoke rose high into the night-time sky and disappeared amongst the curtain of stars. A water-wheel spun round and round near the back of the humble abode, a small stream veering further into the forest.

"It's perfect," Iva said, looking at Henley.

Just like Damon, her body was stiff and painful. They'd been walking since the bloodbath and their encounter with the other alliance. She wanted to rest her eyes and hope that when she woke up she would feel back in the game. Ready and veering to go. Right now, her legs were wobbly, her heart fluttering in her chest, her body basically screaming for sleep.

The trio walked into the cottage tentatively, even Damon bringing up the small blade he had in his hand as a precaution. Inside it was decorated traditionally – a small dining table, kitchen décor, a plush purple couch and an array of knick-knacks dotted around the walls. A rickety staircase led to the upstairs but Damon landed on the couch, grinning as he got to finally stretch out his legs and almost felt the urge to kick off his shoes.

When Iva landed next to him, she rested her head in the crook of his neck. She had no idea what compelled her to do so, but the brick walls inside her soul were becoming mud and slowly sloshing into a puddle of unimportant nothingness. It didn't matter the way she'd felt going into this. What mattered was their alliance was intact. She had a group she could depend on.

"This'll do," Henley said, surveying the cottage with a smile, eyes resting on the fireplace. "We should probably put that out. Just in case someone sees the smoke."

"We didn't," Iva said.

"We only smelt it when we were close enough to the cottage," Damon said, patting the cushion next to him. "Chill out, Henley. Pull up a cushion. C'mon. You're allowed to rest for an hour or two."

Henley's mouth twisted into something close to a frown but she nodded, unable to ignore her own bodily pain. When she landed next to Damon, he was hesitant to get too close to her and just smiled, nodding his head in a friendly manner.

"I could keep first watch?" he offered. "If you girls want to sleep?"

Sure, his own body was knackered, but he had to bring something to the group. And if his something could be a gesture of loyalty and sacrifice, something as simple as watching over their sleeping bodies, then maybe that was good enough in Henley's book.

He wasn't deluded to the point he believed Henley completely trusted him. She didn't; he saw the way she looked at him and then Iva. Damon just had to prove himself.

He had to be the strong-minded person he'd always wanted to be.

"That'd be really nice," Iva said, bringing her head up from his shoulder. "The rug looks pretty comfy, to be honest."

"I'm not tired enough," Henley lied. "Maybe we should stay up for a bit longer anyway? Wait to see who died this morning."

It was a morbid suggestion but something felt important about it. Iva knew Spelt was dead. Henley hoped Teak had made it out. Damon said a silent wish for Altia's longevity.

"So, what's life like back in Five?" Damon asked curiously, staring intently at Henley.

Henley looked at the way Iva was so close to Damon, the warmth that spread through the pair, and felt a silent twinge of jealousy, the same jealousy she felt in training, tugging at her stern resolve. She attempted a friendly smile, the same smile Damon always wore, and thought of home.

"I'm not one for self-pitying but I suppose because my family is a little bit … well let's just say they could be better," Henley said, not even caring what her parents thought of her from back home, watching her speak from inside the Arena, "well it left room for someone I really, truly care about. Marilyn taught me everything I know."

"She must be really talented," Iva said.

Henley nodded. "I miss her." Her eyes began to mist up and she blinked furiously. _Don't. Not in front of the whole of Panem._ "Not a day goes by where I don't."

Iva began to tell stories about her mother, a friendly woman that doted on her garden and with the two of them together, just them in lovely solitude, Henley was beginning to understand more about why perhaps Iva, maybe unknowingly, clung to someone like Damon. And when Damon confessed to everything he had been through, Henley's lips curled downwards into a frown and she felt an urge to hug the poor boy.

Maybe they were all broken in some way. Maybe actually finding each other had been the repair Iva and Damon had needed. _Maybe I need to allow myself to feel the same._

"So, what's your school like in Nine?" Henley asked Iva. "Do you have any-?"

She stopped. They all did.

The noise that erupted from outside the cottage walls tore right through their sense of comfort – the sense of hopefulness that they'd found somewhere for shelter. It was a guttural roar – fierce, petrifying, _starving._

Damon almost leapt out of his skin but Henley shushed him immediately and put her arm out. Iva, though worried that she was beginning to fall apart and unwillingly strip her strength back, felt adrenaline pump through her body as if by instinct and looked at Damon, shaking her head, putting her finger to her lips.

Both girls stood up, weapons out, and Damon did his best to find his courage and stand as well, knife shaking as he held it up.

"No. Sudden. Movements," Henley whispered, staring at the two of them. When her feet creaked against the floorboard, she winced and held her hand up.

Another roar. This time they overlapped, an orchestra of hunger and ferocity. Iva was closest to a window and managed to peer through the pale, moth-eaten curtain. When she looked back, her face had drained of colour and her lip wobbled, eyes blown wide with fear.

"Mutts."

With that one word, the crashing of paws against ground, a set of them, a group of them, caused Henley to ignore her worry of making any noise and she leapt into action. Damon couldn't ignore his absolute terror and felt like he was about to wet himself, but he ran forward with Henley as Iva lifted up her sword.

The door had a bolt and Henley shut it firmly. Damon secured the kitchen window and Iva checked if there was a back door. From the only curtain-less window in the cottage, the alliance saw a trio of bears growling outside, rearing up to pounce and batter their way into their shelter.

A huge, monstrous bear led them. A smaller bear next to the creature. And a tiny one – almost a cub. Its size wasn't deceptive, however. The beady black eyes spoke of a hunger for Damon, Iva and Henley.

When they leapt forwards and came for the window, Henley battered the paw that shattered the glass and heard a pained yelp come from the smallest bear. Iva stabbed at another one as the door came down and Damon slashed and cut his way at the final one.

None were completing overwhelming either Henley, Iva nor Damon, simply swiping their paws and trying to avoid being cut by their weapons.

Henley wasn't sure if it was the Gamemakers only instilling a bit of night-time entertainment without wiping out a whole alliance, or if the muttations themselves were programmed as more defensive than offensive. Maybe this was their place. As silly as it sounded, perhaps _they_ were the intruders.

Henley clubbed the small cub again round the skull and heard a crack. It slunk away outside the cottage and collapsed into a heap, chest rising and falling slowly. Not dead, just injured.

She went to help Iva when a scream pierced the attack. This time it wasn't pain coming from a muttation, but the agonising wail of Damon as the claws of the medium-sized bear gouged into his stomach. When it pulled away, blood splayed out and Damon fell down, colour lost from his face, body curling up.

Iva rushed over and slashed the bear causing it to run away. At the sight of both of its companions dashing away, the biggest one departed leaving the cottage battered and bruised but still standing. The biggest worry however was Damon, eyes open with tears in the corners, looking down at the gouges in his stomach.

Iva was panicking, ripping back the fabric of his top and telling him everything would be okay, a repetitive, untrue loop that made Damon smile at her and twirl a piece of hair that dangled in his face.

Henley switched into a mode that she'd prepared for and took out her med-pack almost immediately. Every instinct Marilyn had drilled into her, every way of observing and perceiving these types of scenarios, flipped through her mind like a book.

"It's not too deep," Henley said as she assessed the cut. Her stomach curdled at the sight of his torn-up flesh – Marilyn holding her back from the serious stuff really wasn't doing her any favours. "I'm going to soak this and you're going to press down hard. We can bandage him up and I have some painkillers that will help. If luck's on our side, one of us has a mentor out there that will try and help us. We can hope someone will support us, but I'll do my best."

She looked up at the sky, hoping that Archie wasn't being so useless and saw the plight in her eyes. Damon would not make it if they did not get some help. She couldn't outright say that, but she couldn't lie either.

She peered out the window and saw the trio of bears race away, disappearing into the forest. They'd done their bit, now Henley had to do hers.

But more importantly, so did the viewers in the Capitol.

If they didn't, Henley knew with a sudden and painful stab of grief what would happen next.

* * *

Nikos and Destan weren't saying much to each other.

And by not much, they weren't speaking at all.

Nikos didn't mind that. In fact, he preferred it. He was still trying to get used to the fact that he now had someone he could call an ally – temporary or not – when he'd spent the whole of training going over and over in his head that he thought people with allies were opening themselves up to weakness.

To top it all off, Destan was no ordinary ally. He was a Career. The very nature of who he was meant that he was now walking just a few short paces behind one of the biggest threats this Games had to offer. Destan could have killed him probably quite easily.

He still could. It unnerved Nikos. He'd only agreed to this alliance to preserve his life. Now he was going into a full-on battle against the rest of the Careers. _What have I signed myself up for this time?_

Despite the lack of conversation, Nikos didn't actually mind the company. Destan wasn't his first choice, but he was something, and for that Nikos allowed himself to enjoy it as best as he could.

As they stepped over the gnarled roots of a large oak tree, Destan raised a hand and stopped, halting Nikos as he nearly bumped into him. "Wait," Destan said, the first word they'd spoken since Nikos had said that he knew the direction of some other tributes. "Is that them?"

Nikos wasn't sure. He'd only sort of seen shapes moving in the woods and distant chit-chat that could have been anyone. For all Nikos knew, they were miles away by now. He couldn't tell Destan that. Nikos was living second by second at this point. Adjusting accordingly.

"Look," Destan said, pointing at something that drifted through a rose bush, blue tendrils delicately brushing the grass. "What the hell is it?"

It looked like a tiny blue gaseous being – ghost-like, with no discernible features. As Destan prepared himself for some sort of fight, Nikos just watched, entranced as another one appeared a few feet behind the first one.

It was a trail of will-o'-the-wisps. Nikos nor Destan knew what they were called, but both were mesmerized by the apparitions.

"I think it wants us to follow," Nikos suggested. When Destan looked at him, Nikos just shrugged his shoulders. "You got a better idea?"

Destan rolled his eyes. "Suppose not. Alrighty then. Let's see where this takes us."

The two boys walked side-by-side this time, both gripping onto their weapons in case of an attack, but nothing happened as they moved towards the first wisp. It disappeared into a puff of blue smoke as they neared it and another one popped into appearance. Nikos and Destan now weren't speaking to each other because there was nothing to say, but because they were nervous and anxious over the path that they were taking.

Destan knew this was the best way to go about things. Offer the Capitol the show he'd promised. Actually think things through properly and not be a showboat. He could not take the girls on by himself and here he was with Nikos from Three. Perhaps the biggest non-Career tribute there was.

 _And a volunteer. Oh shit – he volunteered?!_

"Why are you here?" Destan found his voice suddenly breaking the silence and Nikos looked at him confused. "I mean, why did you choose to come here? You aren't trained, are you?"

Nikos looked at him sourly. "Mind your own."

"If we're going to trust each other-"

"Trust?" Nikos laughed sarcastically. "I don't trust you, Destan. I'm only here because you made something so stupid sound sensible. We need those girls to die. Simple as."

Destan felt himself growing angry again but tried to submerge it under a casual shrug of the shoulders. "Suit yourself. Maybe it's good we don't get to know each other. Makes what comes next easy."

"Whatever."

Destan and Nikos continued to follow the wisps, but this time, Nikos's pace slowed so he was a blue ghost behind where Destan led. He felt the knife in his hand. It suddenly became ten times heavier as he looked down at the blade, and then at Destan's back.

The truth was Nikos did not trust this Career in the absolute slightest. He did not want to go and risk his neck against the biggest threats the Games had to offer. And Nikos didn't think he could win in a fair fight against Destan anyway.

 _So make it unfair._

As Destan stopped, Nikos thought about it and ground his teeth together. The blade grew heavier as he prepared himself to lunge, _do it Nikos, do it, do it, DO IT!_ Then voices, not too far off, a group of them, stopped Nikos in his tracks.

 _Shit._

"I think we've got company," Destan said, grinning over his shoulder. Nikos lowered his hand immediately, hoping Destan didn't notice anything. It didn't seem like it because Destan just turned his back round to face the front. "Let's recruit some more to this wonderful team. Then maybe we can see about killing us some Careers."

 _You are a Career,_ Nikos thought, watching Destan sleek past the last wisp as the blue apparitions disappeared completely. He was ready to see how this was about to play out. If he had more non-Careers on his side, then Destan wouldn't be such a worry.

He could stab him in the back later.

For now: the voices ahead.

* * *

"What's your poison?" Castor asked Maisley, as he stretched his legs out and relaxed as best he could against the tree trunk.

"Come again?" Maisley arched an eyebrow, looking at Castor who just laughed back.

"We've got water," Castor said, lifting a flask, "or… water!"

"Got any juice?"

"'Fraid not," Castor frowned, then laughed again.

They had settled down for the evening. Or they thought it was evening. The fact it had been dark from the very beginning made none of them quite sure about what was going on. Castor was doing his best to keep Carys calm and focused. She seemed to be doing okay but honestly he'd never really understood what was going on in her head from the moment he had met her.

He knew that Maisley would have liked to believe she was the enigma in the group, but it was definitely Carys. Castor would do his best to help her get over what had happened to Spelt – after all, she'd done it for Maisley's sake – but he could only focus his efforts for so long.

Sooner or later, Carys would have to deal with it herself.

Maisley silently begged that maybe her father would find his feet and actually secure a bountiful sponsor for her. Castor knew she had only been blowing hot air when she'd drivelled on about what her father could do for her and her alliance, but she didn't really mind that. Ponche who had always been suspicious was now dead – not that she was happy about that, but it was what it was. And Carys, who had maybe drank too much of their water supply, was doing her business in the bushes.

She had some good muscle on her side. Maisley refused to be seen as weak and protected, but when it came down to it, she knew what she could do and what she couldn't. And the way Castor looked at Maisley made her feel only more secure in her place in these Games.

"Do you reckon we've got long left 'til they show who died?" Castor asked.

Maisley hadn't thought about it. _I hope Celestin is alive,_ she thought. "Not sure. For all we know we've only been in the Games for a few hours. I have no sense of time right now."

"True true," Castor said. "Let's just hope-"

They were cut off by the trampling of leaves and undergrowth as Carys came flouncing from the bushes. Maisley and Castor started to laugh at the sight of Carys stumbling forwards, trousers round her ankles, but when they focused in on the expression on her face, the opening and closing of her mouth, Castor sprang upwards and Maisley felt the fear once again like venomous snakes in her throat.

"Fuck," Castor cursed, grabbing his weapon. "Where?"

Carys finally resettled herself, buttoning up and held onto the knife she had. _Stained with blood,_ she thought. _Fuck I need to get over this soon!_ She pointed into the bushes and lowered the volume of her voice. "Two people. Not sure who."

"Who's in a two-person alliance in these Games?" Castor wondered. He looked at Maisley. "Any idea?"

Maisley just shrugged and stood up shaking onto her legs. If she was going to be perceived as anything more than the youngest tribute here, she was not about to let them do everything. She moved forwards, her own small blade clutched in her hand, and watched the leaves part as Destan and Nikos appeared.

Carys' mind immediately went to _fuck a Career… and fuck that asshole Nikos._

Meeting eye to eye with the boy from Three, both of them just stared at each other, unsure of what to do. Carys' lips curled into a snarl as Nikos just stared at her. Not angrily, not anything really. Carys held onto her knife and then passed it to her other hand to wipe the sweat from her palm on her trouser leg.

It was three against two. But the two in front were volunteers. Carys wasn't confident in those odds.

"You can relax," Destan finally spoke, raising his hands, propping the spear against a tree. "Chill, guys, honestly."

"Tell us why you want us to chill and maybe we'll think about it," Castor said.

Carys was surprised at the strength he had in his voice. He was friendly, but clearly not about to bend over for these bastards. Her eyes fell on Maisley and her throat constricted. She wouldn't roll over and die for this girl, but she wouldn't let Nikos get his grubby hands on her. No way in hell.

Not after what she'd done to help save her life.

 _Poor Spelt._

"I've got myself a little proposition for you," Destan said, smiling.

"He drag you into this?" Carys said, looking at Nikos. "I'm surprised the big bad Nikos Rioux let someone in."

"I didn't let anyone in," Nikos snapped back.

"It's not how it looks from here," Carys replied.

The two continued to stare at each other, the tension palpable as Castor placed a delicate hand on Carys' shoulder. She felt the gentle squeeze and looked at him as he continued to stare, steadfast in his resolve at Destan.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You might be surprised to know, but Chancellor is dead," Destan said.

Maisley now spoke up, not able to stop herself. "What?! How?!"

Destan now finally realised who else was here and his eyes lowered to look at her. "Unsure. Not you guys?"

"Hell no," Carys said. "Not worth the risk."

"Well he's dead, which leaves us with a problem. There are three other Careers still lounging around the Cornucopia no doubt. Nikos here agreed to a little temporary alliance to focus on taking them out. Even the playing field just a little."

Castor looked at Carys, then at Maisley. All three looked anxious at the idea of taking on the Career girls. Carys refocused back on Nikos. She'd always known how temperamental she could be – she wasn't deluded to believe she was some saint. But then she'd met Nikos and realised what it looked like to be even worse than she was. And Destan – the grin on his face did not sit well with Castor, neither did the spear leaning against the tree and the belt of knives he had procured round his waist. They were weapons he had no doubt perfected over the teenage years that Castor had spent loving his family.

"No," Maisley said, before Carys or Castor could say anything. "Thank you, but no."

In her mind, she had what she needed here, and going with Nikos and Destan towards the Cornucopia again was a pack of variables that she had never considered, and didn't have the time to piece together. Maisley would be the runt of a larger alliance. Nikos and Destan too unstable.

She knew Castor. She knew Carys. She did not need to risk herself for something that may or may not work out for her.

"What?" Destan said. "No?"

Carys and Castor after allowing Maisley's abrupt answer to sink in, turned to face the two in front of them and nodded in unison. "You heard the lady," Castor said. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"I don't think you understand-"

"No," Carys interrupted Destan. "What part of that do you find difficult to hear?"

Nikos lowered his gaze from Carys and placed a hand on Destan's shoulder. "Let's just go," he said. "They're not worth it."

Usually a comment like that would have riled Carys up, but she was actually surprised to see Nikos trying to walk away from this and leave them to it. This was the second alliance they had bumped into since the Cornucopia. She knew eventually walking away just would not be possible.

Castor turned around and smiled at Maisley. "C'mon," he said, as he took another step.

As Carys turned around, she heard Nikos' voice grow louder, much louder and she grew confused.

"Don't you fucking walk away from me!" Destan cursed.

Something flashed by Carys' head in a metallic blur. It happened in slow-motion. Seconds felt like minutes that felt like a nightmare.

A knife embedded itself into the back of Castor's skull and he flopped into the ground, a lifeless heap. Dead in an instant as a cannon _boomed._ Maisley's eyes widened and she looked at Carys, horrified, shocked, petrified, a million and one things going through her brain as Carys just turned her head slowly to stare at Destan and Nikos.

"I don't think you heard me the first time," Destan said, pulling out another knife. "Let me ask you again."

Carys turned around, grabbed Maisley, and bolted for it. She looked over her shoulder and saw Nikos grab onto Destan's hand, pulling it down harshly and standing in front of him, a domineering presence that glared down at Destan who slowly gave in and stopped, turning to kick the tree angrily.

Before they broke through into the next patch of woodland, Carys then stared down at Castor's body. Over in a second. From a smile to a deathly, hollow stare. A tear rolled down her face and Maisley too couldn't contain herself, sobbing as the two girls continued to run.

It was absurd what had just happened in a matter of moments. And Nikos saving Carys from another knife? None of it made sense. It was so nonsensical that neither Carys nor Maisley could quite believe it.

Yet they had to.

In the space of a day, they'd lost two allies.

Maisley felt crushed, vulnerable and quivering. Carys didn't know what to think or do except run, run, _run!_

"We should have said yes," Maisley said through strangled sobs. " _I_ should have said yes."

Carys didn't respond.

She had nothing to say.

* * *

Neviya couldn't ever say this to the girls, but she was beginning to grow tired.

Maybe it was the reality of the Games coming at the speed of light and sucker-punching her, but the group they had been during training, the group that had hugged on the rooftop, that was the Neviya she enjoyed being. The true Neviya. But it couldn't be _this_ Neviya.

If they kept this up, then there would be trouble. This blissful ignorance to the fact they had _killed_ – they were _killers_ – they were _Careers –_ if anything they were _villains._ Neviya knew her position here. She wasn't so sure Britta did. Not even Linnea.

And she was stuck because she adored these girls. She didn't know the best way of proceeding forwards from this point.

Britta grinned cheerfully at her and crossed one leg over the other, leaning back against the golden shell of the Cornucopia. She yawned loudly and bit into a piece of jerky. "Tired, Nev'?"

 _I wish you'd lower your voice._ Neviya didn't think Britta had a quiet-mode and maybe earlier Roarke hadn't spotted anyone, but that didn't mean no-one had returned. None of them had any clue who or _what_ was out there watching them.

Neviya yawned herself as if it were contagious and rubbed her eyes. "S'pose I am. You alright, Linnea?"

The girl in question turned her head, blonde hair flicking out over her shoulder and nodded. "If you want girls, I'll take first watch tonight."

"You're a star," Britta said, offering a thumbs-up.

"Are you sure?" Neviya asked. "I don't mind."

"Don't be silly. We'll watch the faces, you two get some shut-eye, and I'll wake one of you in a couple of hours. It's the fairest way."

"I could do with a face mask," Britta joked. "And a mojito."

Neviya looked at Britta and again those annoying thoughts came to mind. Neviya could do with both of those things just as much and would have enjoyed the evenings spent with Britta if they'd met back home. But as Britta continued to lean so nonchalantly against the Cornucopia, Neviya felt annoyance bristling in her gut and reprimanded herself for feeling it.

 _Britta is who she is. That was always why I liked her so much – so what's changed?_ Neviya knew the answer. The six cannons at the start of the day had solidified it.

As trumpets blared out from invisible speakers and Neviya relaxed ever so slightly, Britta's head perked up and she rubbed her eyes. _My god I'm exhausted._ Since Roarke had left, the girls hadn't spoken much and Britta was finding herself getting more and more restless just sitting here. None of them had spoken much about a plan except for the one where they waited for Destan.

Maybe the other two were hoping that the promise of a future slaughter would be enough for the Gamemakers and the Capitol to allow the girls to just sit at the Cornucopia. It usually went unheard of that a Career alliance would just settle down in one spot for a long while, but Neviya nor Linnea seemed to mind.

Britta did. It wasn't that she wanted to go out there, into the unknown of the woods, but it was better than just lounging on her ass and waiting for Roarke to return. It was fantastic news that Chancellor was dead but Britta wanted to take action into her own hands. She hated the idea of idly sitting back and letting the Games pass her by.

"It's starting," Linnea said quietly, as the first face appeared in the sky.

 _Chancellor._ All the girls looked at each other.

Britta grinned. Neviya even smiled. But Linnea – Linnea just looked at her hands. _He was a prick, a psychotic prick, but he was from home._ And he had a family. He hoped they were alright.

 _Teak._ Linnea looked at the kind face, a small smile lighting up his lovely eyes, and her stomach flipped. The spear she'd used was just by her side. Tainted with his blood.

 _Castor._ That had to be the cannon from after the bloodbath, barely an hour or so ago. They all wondered what had happened.

 _Armina._ Roarke had killed her. Neviya thought about her District partner and hoped he was able to cope with that. She still couldn't totally forgive him for what he'd done, but that would never change the natural bond that had formed between them. She hoped if cracks were beginning to develop in the façade of a Career, Roarke was able to pretend they didn't exist. For all their sakes.

 _Spelt._ No one knew who had killed him. Either way, he looked down at them with a genuine fondness in his eyes. Now they were closed forever.

 _Ponche._ Neviya's face didn't so much as flinch. Even when the girls looked over at her, she continued to stare at Ponche's face as it began to fade. _I did what I had to do. Nothing more, nothing less. I'll grieve when I win._ Neviya had to think that way for her own sense of strength.

 _Altia._ The girls looked at Britta and her lip twisted into something akin to a frown and she shook her head. "I feel – I don't know –" She was aware cameras were around and stopped herself. Britta shrugged her shoulders. "I feel bad her allies left her. Not a nice way to go."

When the Capitol seal flashed across the night-time sky, horns sounded once more, and the girls were suddenly blinded.

It was instant. As if someone were wiping a screen clear of dirt and grime in one sudden movement. The stars vanished. The moon along with them. And the night-time became day-time. A hot, blazing sun bore down on them all as birds chirped in the sky, fluffy white clouds drifted into view and the Career girls stared at each other in disbelief.

"For fuck's sake," Britta said, slapping her hands down against the grass. "How in the hell are we supposed to sleep now?" _Fucking Gamemakers,_ she thought. As she yawned, her eyes took in the daylight and her body just felt confused.

"Sleep in the horn," Linnea suggested. "The shade might cut some of this out." Britta and Neviya moved towards the Cornucopia as Linnea stood up, stretched her arms and legs and smiled at her allies. "I'll wake one of you up in a few. Have a good sleep."

"Night," Neviya said.

Britta wrapped a sleepy arm around Neviya's shoulders. "Gonna be one hell of a sleep. Thanks guys!" she yelled to the sky, scowling at a bird that flew overhead.

Linnea just smiled at the two of them and settled back into the grass, bringing her knees up to her chin and swishing side to side. Five minutes passed and she heard snoring coming from within the horn. The idea of Neviya or Britta being such an ungraceful sleeper made Linnea giggle to herself. She hoped it was Britta. That would be even better.

When she thought of her allies, the fondness she felt made Linnea's heart swim with warmth. She could almost forget about the spear by her side. Being with them, apart from the jealousy over Neviya's training score, she'd forgotten about all her own insecurities. She didn't seek out to criticize them because they never seemed to feel the need to do the same with her.

That was not how the girls in One worked, or at least the girls Linnea knew.

It had always been about stepping on a bitch to get to the top. This whole situation was new. And Linnea didn't just mean the Games.

As she continued to sway, her eyes growing used to the lightness around her, a gentle _ding_ caught her attention as a small canister landed next to her feet. When she popped the sponsor gift open and saw a knife, Linnea's eyebrows knitted in confusion. Next to her was a spear. Around the Cornucopia, they had the most weapons of any tribute in the entire Games.

 _Why a knife?_ She almost threw it in frustration when the piece of paper tied to the canister caught her attention. The writing was small but it stood out enough for Linnea to catch every word.

 _You have made enemies. D4M is not the only one out to get you. Stop with all the wishy-washy nonsense and refocus yourselves. These girls are not your friends – A._

Linnea knew that in the eyes of every other tribute, she was the villain of this story. So was Neviya, so was Britta. But that didn't change how she felt over the note. Ailsa's words of warning.

Her eyes fell on the trees and she wondered if anyone was watching her back, a plan in their mind, a desire to kill Linnea there and then.

 _Let them try,_ Linnea thought. Whether or not she had made enemies, Linnea was confident in her skills. She just had to be.

If she had many enemies, then so be it. She hadn't come here to make friends, after all.

 _So, what about Neviya and Britta?_

That was the complicated part. At the moment, Linnea didn't have an answer.

* * *

 **18th:** Castor Velboa, District Eight Male.

* * *

 **Gamemakers fucking with the tributes, why not?! A cute lil cottage with some bear mutts. I'm not a HUGE fan of mutts as some may have gathered over my stories. I'll use them to further plot and development of alliances but other than that, they don't serve much imo.**

 **Apologies to the creator of the tribute that died this chapter. I'm not going to keep apologising is every A/N so here's a general one – I appreciate each and every submission I received for this story, they have made it my favourite SYOT I've ever written, and each decision is tough but is done for the sake of furthering the plot, development and characterisation. Hope you understand.**

 **Update on Games format for anyone wondering. It is going to stay this third-person omniscient throughout the entire Games portion. I'm glad to see people are enjoying it. Also, there were 12 pre-reaping chapters, 12 Capitol chapters, so there are 12 Games chapters (bloodbath included.) That leaves us with 9 left!**

 **I also have the guidelines and form ready for my next SYOT lmao but that won't happen for a few weeks yet.**

 **Love y'all!**


	30. Lost

**Chapter Thirty.**

* * *

 _I walk down the stairs cautiously; fearful about what awaits at the bottom. Each step leaves a footprint of the gut-wrenching terror that swirls in the pit of my stomach. I will myself to run back upstairs but can't. I cannot. Because of him._

 _When I get to the kitchen, my Father dressed in his Peacekeeper uniform stands stoically, his eyes two burning beads of a red, bitter inferno._

" _Damon."_

 _I cannot reply. Not because I don't want to, but because I cannot. Panic rips my heart open when I touch my lips and realise they have gone. Vanished from my face as his anger ripens and grows stronger and fiercer._

" _Answer me, boy!"_

 _I feel his hand on my shoulder and he throws me into the cupboard we have under the stairs. I want to scream but my throat feels scorched and acidic. A hot poker is shoved through the door and stabs straight into my abdomen – I scream, or I would if I could. My fingernails snap against the wood of the door as I try to claw my way outside. The pain is iron-hot, twisting and turning my skin into charred, blackened swathes of meat._

" _Damon!"_

 _That's my Fathers taunt – I hear him laughing and can only sob silently._

"Damon!"

 _The voice sounds distant and I try to ignore it against the pain that ravages my body._

" _Damon!" My father continues to jeer, glaring through the peephole at me. Malicious grin from ear to ear._

"Damon!"

" _Damon!"_

"Damon!"

"Damon!"

"Damon!"

His eyes snapped open and Damon was met with the concerned look of both Henley and Iva. The two of them had red-shot eyes, blue bags underneath that were beginning to get darker. He tried to smile up at them and attempted to shuffle upwards from where he lay, but his body forbade it and screamed at the slightest tremor.

"It's okay," Henley said, placing a hand against his shoulder. "Just – just try not to move. It won't do you any good."

The silence of last night had been deafening. No sponsor gift. No sign of anything from the Capitol. Henley wanted to blame Archie but couldn't. What was so special about their alliance? They were nobodies to the Capitol. She hated the idea that she was being seen as a weak competitor and Henley couldn't help herself but partially blame her two allies.

But it wasn't their fault, she knew that. It was just the way the game was rigged. Tributes like Henley were never revered by anyone.

Iva was closer to Damon and wiped back the thick locks of blonde hair that clung to his head. He was burning up – the sweat paramount as it trickled from every part of Damon and he shivered from his place on the couch.

Iva looked at the remnants of the fight from yesterday and the scorching sunbeams that radiated through from the open window. They had barely gotten any sleep. Iva didn't want to leave Damon by himself in case he got worse – which he had – and Henley herself as the healer of their group felt a moral obligation to do her best by Damon.

The deep gouges in the wood told a different story to each of the girls as they watched Damon sombrely. Iva saw an attack that had almost ripped apart the alliance she had come to cherish. Henley saw only the confliction in her mind between the duty she felt compelled to fulfil and her duty to herself as a tribute. Both girls wanted to cry. They wanted to scream and rip their hair out and just glare towards the cameras and ask _why?!_

But their priority had to be Damon. Because he was growing worse by the minute, and no help was coming.

"Iva?"

Damon's voice was weak but Iva grabbed his hand, squeezing it. "Damon – are you okay? Do you need some more medicine? I think we have some – I think –"

"No," he said, smiling. "I just wanted to ask - is it daytime or am I just imagining it?"

"It's daytime, I think. But it was daytime during the night as well," Iva looked at Henley and both girls just frowned – exhausted. "It's very confusing."

Damon continued to smile. "It's warm."

His stomach was agonizing but he could feel the sun against his skin and found comfort in it. The remnants of his nightmare had begun to fall from his mind – his Father a villainous shadow in the peripheral of his subconscious. He continued to hold onto the anchor that was Iva's hand and feebly squeezed it back.

"I'm so sorry about Spelt," Damon said. "He seemed like a nice guy."

Iva had dealt with the throb of sadness that had hit her square in the face last night as his face had appeared in the sky. Henley had said her goodbye to Teak. Both united in their loss of a District partner. And Damon …

"Please tell me Altia is alright," he said. "Please. I need to know, Iva."

There was a pause. Iva looked at Henley and Henley back over at Iva. They knew the truth – Altia's hardened exterior gazing down at the Arena, emblazoned across the sky at their final look at the girl from Twelve that Damon had always spoke so highly of.

Henley shook her head. _Don't,_ she mouthed. Iva bit her lip and nodded in response.

"She's alive, Damon. You don't need to worry about her."

"That's good," he hummed. "That's good."

A gasp broke from his dry lips as his body shuddered with pain and Iva yelped automatically. _When did I become so… so… like this?_ She'd only ever cared for her Mother and that was it. She had never needed, nor wanted, anyone else. Yet Damon in his sweet, yet oblivious nature, had wormed his way through those walls and settled brightly and firmly.

 _Fuck…_ Iva looked over, helplessly at Henley, and the girl from Five beckoned her over with a small wave.

She led Iva to the furthest window and looked down at her hands. They were covered in his blood and she found herself shaking. Henley looked once more over at Damon – her ally, her patient, her _friend?_ – and couldn't meet Iva's look.

"Nothing is coming for him," Henley said.

Five words of a truth that Iva knew the moment Damon had been attacked, but five words she had hoped to ignore and never let settle. She looked at Henley and then took hold of Henley's hands, shaking them in front of her eyes. "You can do it," Iva said, voice barely above a whisper, but determined in its blind hope all the same. "I know you can. There – there has to be something."

"We're in the Hunger Games, Iva."

"So?"

Henley sighed. "So – so if we want to win, if one of us wants to win, he has to—" Henley couldn't say it. It went against everything she believed as the girl from Five she had always prided herself on becoming. Yet when the thought ballooned in her head, it continued to rise, and she couldn't shake it.

"How long?" Iva said, bowing her head.

"Could be today, could be tomorrow, could be a few days. But it'll be painful. Very painful," Henley said. "Someone like Damon doesn't deserve to go that way."

Both girls knew what Henley's words meant. Iva immediately hated Henley for putting that thought out there, but not as much as Henley hated herself. They looked over at Damon, moaning in agony from the couch and Iva looked at the sword she had rested against the table.

"He's my friend," Iva said.

Henley nodded wordlessly.

"And he's in pain," she continued. "For him – I'll do it."

"Use this," Henley said, handing over the knife she had clasped in her hand and had done since the moment they'd left the bloodbath. She felt helpless without it. "Clean and quick. He won't suffer."

The callousness of her words stung Iva and punched Henley in the gut, but Iva nodded, took the knife, and walked over to Damon. She knelt by him and smiled as his bright blue eyes, lit up with painful tears, rested on her face. He relaxed in Iva's company. Swallowed the pain down to be strong for his friend. She'd lost her District partner. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing the only presence from home that you had. And she'd been there for him the past few days. She'd made him a better person.

"Hi, Iva," he said.

Iva tried not to cry. If she cried, she wouldn't stop. "Hi, Damon."

The knife was so heavy in her hand. With her fingers, she delicately brushed the sweaty hair from his forehead and smiled back down at him. He gasped and the gouges in his stomach looked so much more prominent in their deathly, bloody glow.

"Thank you, Iva," Damon said, his eyes closing tight, clamped with pain as it coursed through his body. "You're a good friend."

He'd never had a friend before. No one had ever given him the time of day before Iva came along.

Iva stood up and walked back over to Henley, tears now falling from her eyes and shook her head firmly. "I can't," she stammered. "I – I just can't."

Henley took the knife from her hand. "It's okay. It's okay."

 _Oh god…_ Henley thought, as she walked towards Damon. _Oh god, oh god, oh god._ On the outside, her face was a mask of a gentle, kind smile belonging to the last person that Damon would see. On the inside, the healer Marilyn had raised her to be, the knowledge her books had told her, the principle of _save lives, protect, preserve, heal…_ they swirled around and around in a cycle that made Henley feel sick and destructive. It went against everything she'd ever believed.

It went against the person Henley was.

"Hi, Henley," Damon said with a smile, opening his eyes faintly. "You look tired."

Henley only returned the smile and leant forwards, kissing his forehead.

"Go to sleep, Damon," she said kindly. "We'll always be here, I promise you that. Always."

Damon nodded his head and closed his eyes, drifting off into another pained dream-like state, the agony of his wound twisting through him. As he shuddered again, Henley moved the knife down to his chest, looked over at Iva and stabbed firmly forwards.

It pierced his heart quickly and cleanly. Damon was dead, the cannon slamming through the rafters and shaking the cottage. She dropped the knife as his body lay still and she slumped to the ground, resting her head against her knees and allowing the dam to break and the tears to fall.

The healer had become a killer.

Iva had lost a friend. Henley had been the one to take him away from her.

Nothing could, nor would, be the same again.

The blood soaked too deep.

* * *

Roarke thought of what lay behind him and kept going.

If he let his mind wander too much to what might happen in the future, the Roarke that had let himself crumble and join Chancellor, would resurface. He could not let that happen.

It was his duty to both himself and to the girls that had given him a second chance that he would accomplish what they'd tasked him with. Roarke felt almost elated with the sense of purpose that distracted him from everything else.

With every snap of a twig beneath his boot, every push of a branch in front of his face that sometimes snapped back against his skin, it grounded Roarke in his resolve. He felt better than he had done all week.

He only hoped he could keep it up.

The fireflies that had become so permanent in this Arena seemed to follow him in a golden cloud on his journey through the trees. So far, it had been very much of the same, with some trees that were larger and further apart, and those that were thinner hugging together and blocking his view.

That was the hardest part about this. The Arena seemed quite small from what he'd gathered so far, but he couldn't see very far ahead and that was what unnerved him. Even when he looked up, sometimes the canopies of the trees were so densely packed that the treetop obscured the bright blue of the fucked-up new daytime façade and the fluffy white clouds that drifted above.

His sleep had been abysmal but he'd come to accept that that was going to be a recurring theme in the Games. Especially by himself. He'd woken up every five minutes whenever there was so much as a single noise. Roarke's entire body was on edge. He just had to be and accepted it.

As he wondered if Destan would be so easy in his acceptance of his return, the words he would lay on thick, the lie underneath them all, the trees seemed to depart into a wide-open clearing of dark, pitch-black grass. It rose upwards into what looked like half of a hill, barely reaching a quarter of the way up to the trees that surrounded it, but what sat on the hill neared closer to the clouds above.

A tower made up of solid rock, moss-covered in some places, loomed firmly into the sky. A bird perched somewhere at the very top where Roarke imagined a balcony overlooked the Arena and he smiled to himself, nearing the wooden door cast with iron bolts and a lion knocker. He pushed it open hesitantly, bow firm in his hand, arrows ready on his back, and nothing but a plume of dust fell into his face and he coughed, spluttering as he took a step forward.

A winding staircase rested against the wall going up, up and up as it stopped right at the top. Roarke needed the vantage point that it would provide and he couldn't help but feel irritated at not being able to feel closer to his target. The longer it took, the more likely Roarke felt that his determination to fulfil this plan would start to fall apart. Especially as more and more cannons sounded. The higher the death toll, the more this felt like the walls of the Arena were slowly moving in on him.

"Fuck's sake," he mumbled to himself, breathless as he continued up the staircase. He paused, exhaled deeply, and finished the journey upwards as he came to another door that he pushed open.

The room was quaint and miniscule, barely furnished except for a four-poster, rickety bed and a table with a mirror perched atop. A bearskin rug lay across the rocky floor as he made his way to the window. The bird flew off at Roarke's presence and he looked out upon the Arena.

He could see the trees all around him, stretching as far as the eye could see, but in the distance a faint glimmer that only the sunlight catching a portion of the sky enabled him to see. Inside the shimmer, the forest itself was actually quite small and he realised that perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to find Destan after all.

 _Or someone else._

Though Roarke could not see any tributes, there was something that caught his eye from where he stood at the window. Peeking through the leaves, he saw what looked like a small wooden building, the first half of a hut or something similar. There were a few dotted amongst the trees in close proximity to each other and Roarke immediately knew that he would head there.

After traipsing around with an aim, but with no destination in mind, this was the first sign of where someone might be that he had come across. Chances were it might not be Destan, but the fact that it _could_ was enough for Roarke to nod grimly to himself and map out in his mind the short journey it would take to get there.

As he resolved himself to this new venture, a _ding_ echoed out from somewhere above the clouds and a small parachute carrying a long canister of sorts fell towards him. He thought maybe it would head for the trees but as a quick breeze blew it towards Roarke and through the window, he caught it with a small smile on his face.

Someone was rooting for him. Money spent on him. It was a supportive thought that actually made Roarke feel confident in himself and the journey he was embarking on. He popped the lid off and another dozen or so arrows fell out with a clatter onto the floor.

 _Good luck._ Those were the only words scrawled across the note. Roarke didn't know if it meant Destan was or wasn't within those trees, but he had more arrows which meant he wouldn't run out anytime soon.

Roarke thought about Armina and the pretty face that had looked down from the sky last night. It had filled his gut with remorse, but also a focus that he had what it took, had already taken the first step, and would see this through to the end.

Roarke was afraid of the fighting, but he wasn't against it anymore. He would go where he had to and do what he had to do. Not just for Neviya, Britta or Linnea. But for himself.

He wanted to win. The irony of using Chancellor's weapon of choice on the other tributes hadn't fallen on deaf ears, but Roarke would take what he could find and do his best with it.

He turned from the window, walked down the spiralling staircase, and had in his mind a concrete destination. It was something.

At this point, something was better than nothing.

* * *

The fireflies had inspired the two of them.

Shual sat across from Albie and handed over a pack of crackers. Albie thanked him and ate them tentatively, digging the knife into the floorboard by her side, the movement a distraction.

She found herself at odds. Half of her knew that the way she was heading was _not_ the right path for Albie. The other relished the rush of emotions that were pouring out of her. She'd never felt like this before – like she'd shaken up a drink and popped the lid off, letting it all froth and bubble and explode. They weren't good emotions at all. Armina's face had left Albie and Shual in a bitter silence last night, but they were still something that Albie could now tangibly cling onto.

Shual could see Albie trying to control herself and he thanked whatever silent force might have had some sway in her mindset. He was becoming accustomed to seeing the flash of anger in Albie's face, the tear-drops against the wooden flooring, but also the way that she would smile and actually try to talk to Shual again.

He didn't have much to say, but he was forcing himself into conversation because it meant there was _some_ normalcy back in this. He clung onto it for dear life.

"We should have a place ready," Shual said, swallowing down his own cracker and wiping the crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. "I don't think it's wise that once this goes down we're just roaming around again."

Albie nodded. "It'll catch the attention of the other tributes as well. They might all flock towards the flames."

"Or run."

"Or run," Albie echoed, grimacing.

The entire treetop village they'd found was made up of wood, from roof to floor to bridge to ladder. A firefly had landed on Albie's cheek last night, after she stopped herself from crying at Armina's final look down at them all, and Albie's mind had sparked with an idea.

She was glad she still had it in her to think of these things, fit the pieces together that may not have worked by themselves, but with a little bit of force could slot into shape. It meant she still had the same mindset she'd always had – it was just evolving, and maybe that was a good thing. Shual himself enjoyed the way that the plan seemed to be coming together, even if part of him knew it meant teenagers his age might die as a result.

He was becoming detached to that idea. He had to for the sake of himself and Albie. If he put names to these faces and homes and lives and families then he knew his knees would lock and he'd cave. Albie might see the Careers as the monsters in the cupboard but Shual just saw them with pity for a system that had chewed them up and spat them out.

He knew they had to go, though. He was willing to do what he had to do to make sure of that.

"And we're 100% sure that they'll be at the Cornucopia?" Shual asked. He had a mental list of the things he needed ticking off before he could concretely adhere to this plan. He couldn't afford anything to go wrong.

Albie seemed more flippant in her resolve. The pieces were coming together, sure, but spontaneity had its place too. "If they aren't, we'll find them. They're our biggest threats, Shual. And one of them killed Armina. Killed Teak, Castor, Spelt, Ponche, Altia."

"You don't know that, Albie," Shual said. "Not for definite."

She just shrugged. "Whatever happened, it doesn't change that we _need_ to do this. Not just for us. But for Carys and her alliance. Even Nikos—" she paused at the thought of her lumbering District partner. He volunteered, sure, but she knew there was regret there, not a bloodthirst for murder. She was glad he was alive. "—we kill them, we make things fair."

Shual wanted to slap Albie for a second. _Fair?!_ The entire Games were a system built on corruption and the unfair ways that Panem ran. It wasn't fair they were here in the first place. But he couldn't get rid of that small thought in his head that killing the strongest competitors, or even just one of them, meant their chances would shoot up.

It was totally self-serving, but he had to be.

"We find them, draw them towards us, up into the trees, and we set it alight."

Shual nodded as Albie recalled their plan. There were still some missing pieces, like their escape, like what they would do if the fire didn't start, but it was better than sitting idly by and doing nothing. As much as he would have loved that, he knew he couldn't. So did Albie. They were in this now – together.

She leaned forwards and placed her fingers delicately atop his own. "I know you probably don't see me the same way anymore, Shual. But – but this is just the way it has to be. We can do this, I know we can."

Shual gritted his teeth together and forced himself to nod. "Draw them in, set it on fire, and run."

"If they try to jump, they'll at least break something and we can finish them off."

 _Finish them off._ Albie said it flippantly. So uncaring in her resolve to kill three, or four, or even five of the Careers that remained.

In her mind, even one was a small victory. She wasn't just doing this for Armina anymore. She had been the fuel for her vengeance but now she was simply here to do what she had to do for her survival.

 _And Shual._

She couldn't forget him.

"Let's check everything is in place before we leave," Albie said, standing up.

She moved towards the open side of the hut where a wooden bridge, held together with knotted ropes, swayed atop the undergrowth of the forest floor. Shual joined her as she stopped, leaning against the rope and gazing out towards the trees all hunched together.

"It's quite pretty," Albie mused. "We don't have anything like this in Three. It's all just so – grey."

"That doesn't sound nice," Shual said.

It didn't. Not at all.

He placed his hands over the rope barrier and spotted something in the distance. At first, he thought maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but Albie saw it too and stiffened. A bunched-up row of bushes were rustling and somewhere out there a _snap_ of a twig made Shual's heart jump into his throat.

"You got your knife?" he whispered to Albie.

She nodded. "You?"

"Yup."

The two just watched, kneeling down from where they stood above the ground, as someone appeared into view, looking up at the nearest wooden hut.

When Shual realised who it was, he felt the sense of control he'd finally begun to feel again, the sense of a puzzle coming together, of a plan in motion, fall apart.

He looked at Albie and the colour fell from her face. "Don't."

Roarke Lumally had a bow in his hand as he scanned the area, his face twisting into a frown. His eyes then moved up to the hut and he spotted the ladder.

"Albie. Don't."

She couldn't hear Shual. Somewhere in her mind, all she could focus on was Armina's painful scream as an arrow ripped into her shoulder, and then the deathly silence as she plummeted to the ground face-first, dead. Gone. Just there – nothing anymore, where there had once been a happy girl with a pretty smile.

Her hands were shaking and she couldn't stop herself. The overflow of emotions that she was beginning to temper and use to her benefit ousted the logic of the plan they'd spoke of and she stood up, knees knocking together, face twisted into an angry snarl.

Roarke heard the motion and his eyes fell on Albie. He looked startled at first, then calmed himself down, moving closer to gaze up at her as Shual joined Albie in a standing position. In his mind, maybe two against one, with them having the higher vantage point, might mean Roarke would leave them. Shual had to remain optimistic even though that had never been his forte. The fear would overwhelm him if he didn't.

"Oh," Roarke exhaled.

"Oh?" Albie's voice wasn't loud, but it was laced with rage that spat harshly down to Roarke who stood below them. "That's it? Oh?"

"What do you want me to say?" Roarke said.

He looked uncomfortable. Shual knew it wasn't really Roarke's fault. He was just doing what any tribute would do if they wanted to fight for their place in the Games. He killed someone Shual had grown to like but he didn't look at Roarke with the same bitter fury. He just saw a boy raised to believe this – the Arena, the Games – were his only goal in life.

Just like Albie had been raised to hold in everything she felt. Just like Shual worked hard, didn't care for much outside of his little bubble, and got on. That was the difference in their ways of life.

Albie didn't care for that. Not in the slightest. She saw a murderer. _Armina's_ murderer.

"Did you even stop to think before you shot that arrow?" Albie asked. She could feel angry tears pooling in the corners of her eyes and blinked them away. Now was not the time to cry. "We were leaving. Why didn't you just let us go?"

"Albie," Shual whispered.

She ignored him and looked at Roarke. Whether he apologised or not, she did not care. The knife was in her hand and back in their hut, she had some more of them. She didn't care anymore about getting any of the other Careers here. She only cared about Roarke.

She saw Armina dead on the floor, with Roarke mumbling a stupid sorry over her corpse. As if a sorry was good enough.

"I can't just walk away from what I chose," Roarke said. "And for all I know, Armina could have been the one later on to kill me."

"She was fifteen years old," Albie spat.

"There have been twelve-year-old killers in the Games before," Roarke said. "Age doesn't really matter when we're fighting for our lives."

"That wasn't a fight when you killed Armina. It was butchery."

Shual tried to grab Albie's arm as she raised it, the knife glimmering in the sunlight. Even Shual knew for all their training, there was no way if she threw it, she would ever come close to hitting Roarke. But that bow in his hand, down there with a quiver of arrows on his back; Shual knew that he could do what he'd done to Armina to either of them.

"Albie!" This time Shual made his voice louder and she finally looked at him. "He's not worth it. Stop it."

Albie looked at Roarke once more. _I could just walk away. I should just walk away._ Hot tears once again fell from her eyes and down her cheeks as Roarke continued to just _stare_ at the two of them. He didn't even seem to flinch with emotion, or wither under Albie's intense anger.

It made him come across uncaring. Albie couldn't forget Armina's scream. It haunted her, embedded into her mind.

She lifted her knife. "For Armina." And she threw it.

 _Fuck._

Shual only had a second to formulate that thought in his mind as the knife missed entirely and Roarke grabbed an arrow, pulled on the string of the bow, and let it loose.

It soared into the sky, catching the sunlight, and hit Shual in the centre of his chest.

He looked, wide-eyed at Albie, as ice and fire ripped through his body. "Albie?"

She just stared at him as he rocked once and fell over the side of the bridge, landing with a crash on the ground below at Roarke's feet.

 _He's not-? He can't-?_

 _BOOM!_

Albie screamed. It tore out of her throat and shattered the silence that followed the cannon marking Shual's death. Roarke, like he had with Armina, just stared at Shual's body and let the bow fall from his hands. He didn't even notice Albie run across the bridge, gather her supplies, and leg it back and disappear into a hut hidden further in the forest.

She left him alone with the body of her final ally and collapsed into the corner, sinking as far as she could further and further into the floor.

Albie hated herself. The anger that ravaged through her. The sadness. Everything that rampaged through her body and left her mind blurry, her vision wet with tears.

She slammed her eyes shut.

 _It's a nightmare. Just a nightmare. A horrific, bloody nightmare._

When she opened them, she was still alone.

Shual was dead. Armina was dead.

 _It's my fault. All my fault._

No longer was she the contained angel of the Mathison household, but the bitter remnants of a girl that had laughed and smiled with two innocent teenagers. They were gone, leaving Albie in the shadows of the woodland, the sunlight bearing down on her from all angles.

A solitary firefly flittered through the window and landed on her knee.

 _I still have my plan._

Vengeance was still hot in her stomach. And now, she let herself become consumed by it.

* * *

Sinta rubbed her eyes sleepily and stared into the placid waters of the pond.

They hadn't moved since settling yesterday after running through the forest. Stumbling upon the pond at the bottom of an incline, with enough of a view around them, had been a reprieve for the four of them. It meant they'd been able to relax and recuperate. Sinta felt bad that she barely said a word to any of her allies but she no longer had the energy to think of any words of encouragement to say.

Bryce and Sheridan were doing their best with the supplies and rationing of food whilst Celestin was trying his best to recover as quickly as possible. The guilt that Sinta felt however was minimal to what she felt about the kill she'd made.

It would be easy for someone not in her position to tell her to get over it, but they didn't feel what she felt. The darkness in her stomach was unparalleled and undefeated. She'd given up scrubbing her hands. Bryce told her they were clean. In her mind, the red stood out even more in the sunlight. A constant reminder of her actions.

 _I need to get over this._ She thought of the note from Gigi and knew that if she didn't, something bad would happen. But again, easier said than done. She continued to just stare into the pond at her ratty hair and the few splotches of mud that were on her face from when she'd fallen over. She had a scratch on her elbow and the pain helped anchor her just a little. It made her feel human.

"Sinta."

She looked over her shoulder at the mention of her name and when she noticed Bryce, Sheridan and Celestin chatting a few paces away, she felt confused. _Great… I'm hearing things._ Sinta felt a shudder down her spine at the idea of losing it. Her mind had always been something she'd valued and prided herself on. If that too were shattering then she had no chance.

And she couldn't feel hopeless. If she lost hope, she lost who she was.

"Sinta."

She turned around and look at the pond where her reflection stared back at her. It smiled.

But Sinta hadn't.

She leapt backwards and felt pain sear up as the cut on her elbow scratched open upon a bunch of twigs sticking up from the leaves. _What…?_ She didn't want to look but had to. When she crawled forwards, the reflection was still there, just staring at her, smile from ear to ear. It was the sickly-sweet smile that Sinta had been loved for and berated by those less likely to see the light in the world.

She hated it. Absolutely hated it. Her hand splashed the water angrily and as the ripples settled, the reflection was still there. Smiling. Always smiling.

"What do you want?" Sinta asked, feeling foolish, but scared at the same time.

"How're your hands?" It asked, staring into her own eyes, the pupils so black, so dark, so _empty._ "He'll always be a part of you now."

Sinta shook her head furiously. _No, no, no, no._ She dug her nails into the mud and found herself subconsciously shaking them, trying to wipe the red off; that insatiable, invulnerable red that would not disappear. "He won't. He can't."

"Always, Sinta. He's a part of you. You are now him, as he is now you."

"No!" She stared at the reflection and bit back a sob. "He can't!"

"It's the only way to win," the reflection said, softer this time, but still smiling. "Accept it. Embrace it. If you don't want to die, you know what you have to do."

A hand rose, bloody and streaked with red from the water and a quiet laugh chilled Sinta to her core. She screamed and scrambled backwards as something pressed against her shoulder and she screamed again.

"Sinta!"

When she looked up through blurry eyes, her allies were looking down, Bryce's face twisted with concern, Celestin looking confused and Sheridan with eyebrows knitted in worry.

"I'm sorry," Sinta said, stammering, lip trembling. "I'm sorry. I – I don't know. I don't –"

"It's okay," Sheridan said, squeezing her shoulder. "C'mon. We're moving on."

 _When was that decision made?_

She nodded meekly and Sheridan helped her up. Immediately as Sheridan set off, Celestin joined her side and Bryce wrapped an arm around Sinta, helping her along. They were slow, even slower than Celestin with his twisted ankle.

As they walked through the forest, Bryce watched Sinta more concerned than he'd ever felt. The girl that had helped him on the Chariot, the girl that had stuck by his side, smiled and helped him through every insecurity and doubt that had muddled his mind, was gone. Or hidden. Stuck underneath the blood she believed to be caking her skin.

He wanted to shake her from it but knew he couldn't. Even with the pressure and fear he felt about being here in the Arena, losing Teak and Altia, Bryce could never do anything to harm or upset Sinta. She was so strong, or had been, that Bryce couldn't imagine a situation where she wasn't able to pull herself out of it. Even this – being a killer, in Bryce's mind surely she could think about it in terms of what she'd done, who she'd killed, and what might have happened if she hadn't have done it.

 _I hope she does,_ Bryce thought, _because if she doesn't I don't know what I'll do._

The roles seemed reversed, even more than when Bryce had embraced Sinta on those Capitol nights where she'd cried. This seemed near permanent. The thought scared him so much.

Up in front, leading the two from Seven, Celestin and Sheridan were side-by-side, pushing aside branches that got in the way and surveying the area.

Celestin didn't want to be the one to say it, but if Sheridan wasn't, then he had to.

"She needs to stop this," Celestin said, frowning. He felt bad – he had no idea what it must be like to know you were a killer – but that was just the way it had to be. Sinta had to snap out of it for all of them. "It might be okay today. But things are only going to get tougher from here."

"I know," Sheridan said, with a sigh, turning to look at Celestin. "I don't know what to do. Bryce seems the best person to help her. I trust him to do what he can."

"And if he doesn't?" Celestin asked.

Sheridan paused. She knew what Celestin was hinting at, but she couldn't put that energy out there, or else it might become an inevitability, rather than a possibility. The thought chilled Sheridan and scared her.

"We'll deal with that if it happens," Sheridan said. "I don't want to hear any more about it."

"Alright, alright," Celestin said, conceding.

 _For now._

He knew that Sheridan was definitely in the best position to lead them right now. His ankle wasn't as painful as it had been yesterday but it was by no means perfect. Each step sent a spike of pain up his leg and left him silently gasping. He wanted to laugh at the cruel sense of irony. Just as he was beginning to open up, care a bit more, actually _try,_ the world decided to put a backpack in his way and let him trip like a moron.

As if a higher being was watching him, poking fun at his silly attempts to be more than the cards the world had dealt him. Existence sometimes did suck. His thoughts on that hadn't changed.

"Look who's back," Celestin said.

The four of them watched as fireflies appeared from around them, weaving in and out all four. Sinta tried a weaker smile, finding beauty in their quiet buzz and lovely glow. Bryce saw the twitches of her lips and brightened up. _Maybe there is hope._

Celestin swatted one away and Sheridan just looked at them sadly. She knew Saraya would love this. She'd paint some silly yet beautiful picture and Sheridan would swoon like the idiot she was around the girl she cared most about.

"Were they always red?"

When Celestin vocalised the confusion about the firefly that had circled round him, it was as if a switch went off. Every single golden glow soon turned into a foreboding shade of red. A swarm of crimson fireflies that circled the alliance.

"This can't be good," Sheridan said, lifting the axe she had in her hand. "Guys?!"

Sinta and Bryce looked at Sheridan and Celestin as they stopped to let them catch up. The way Sinta was feeling was suddenly submerged under sudden panic at the ominous change in these beautiful fireflies. Bryce's hand was clammy against hers but he did not let go.

Even when the first wisp of a flame caught a tree branch and the inferno began.

"FUCK!"

Sheridan and Celestin cursed at the same time, looked once more at the pair from Seven, and they bolted forwards. As if waiting for them to move, the fireflies buzzed harsher; angry and headed straight for the trees. A single touch set them alight, the trees engulfed in flames that sent heat-waves crashing into the four tributes.

Celestin felt each throb of his ankle but he wasn't about to roll over and be burnt to a crisp by some stupid flies. He swatted another away and felt a stab of pain in his hand. The skin immediately blistered and he bit his tongue to stop from crying out loud.

"Bastards," Sheridan swore, gritting her teeth together in frustration.

She had to trust that her allies had faith in her to lead them. She didn't really know what she was doing but as trees gave way to the inferno and collapsed around them, flames engulfing flowers and branches and the beauty of the day-time forest, she sped up, weaving between the trees to try and get away.

She thought about what would happen if she dared to stop. The thought sent a flare of panic through her heart and she refused to give it any weight or further worry. _Not now!_

Bryce pulled on Sinta, a bit speedier than she was, and jumped out the way of a tree that started to collapse. The heat was shocking against his skin, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down the bridge of his nose. He hoped Sinta was taking this as seriously as he was. _Fuck Chancellor,_ he thought, surprised at the harshness of his mind. _Good riddance!_

It was true and he looked at Sinta as she panted and pulled on her to move faster, almost angry at her. They dodged another inferno as the fireflies continued to follow them. Their luck, however, ran out with the next blaze.

A tree fell down right in front of Sheridan and Celestin.

"MOVE!"

Celestin darted left. Sheridan, Bryce and Sinta flew right.

The tree crashed down claiming no victim. The forest floor was bathed in wisps of red and burnt orange. Celestin looked panicked, coughing as smoke filled his lungs and watched through the hazy view of the fire as Sheridan, Bryce and Sinta stared at him.

"Can you get around?!" Sheridan shouted.

He blinked furiously, ash in his eyes, and looked around with fear. "I don't think so!" _Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ He looked behind him at the clearing that was yet to catch fire and then back at his allies.

"I don't know what to do!" His eyes were now tearing up but he put it down to the fire. _I'm not crying. I'm not._ "Guys… I don't…"

"I'm sorry, Celestin," Sheridan said.

More flames were ravaging the forest around them and she knew with sorrow that she couldn't wait any longer. She gave her ally one final look and turned to run, pulling on Bryce's arm.

"C'mon," she said. "We have to go."

Bryce spared one final look at Celestin, shook his head sadly and ran after Sheridan, his hand falling from Sinta's as the girl from Seven looked at the terrified eyes of their ally, stuck behind a wall of fire.

He tried moving further up past the tree but the fire had spread and he was beginning to struggle to see past the wall of smoke. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't. He couldn't. Again, the stroke of cruel irony and he wanted to curse the world.

He left Altia to her fate, and here was his alliance leaving him.

They were no longer an alliance of sunshine and rainbows. The Hunger Games had snuffed that out of them.

"Celestin," Sinta called.

He looked at her. It had been her kindness that had drawn him in. She looked over her shoulder to where Bryce and Sheridan were fleeing, unaware that she was not on their tail, right behind the kindest boy she'd ever met.

She turned her head to focus for a final time on Celestin. "Good luck."

It felt almost easy ditching him and she didn't like it. Guilt didn't play a part in her actions and she thought of that sinister reflection, the hand that crept upwards, trying to grab at Sinta and pull her down into the bloodied waters that were now her present self.

 _You are now him, as he is now you._

If this was who she was becoming to survive, then… then was it so bad?

She looked behind her. Celestin had vanished, scampering off into the forest behind him.

 _Six down to four down to three._

Her strong foundation was slowly crumbling apart. Soon – if she wanted to survive this – it would have to be just her.

She didn't know what to think.

As the fires burnt the forest around her, choking plumes of smoke watering her eyes, Sinta hurried forwards and pushed that all away. Maybe she had no idea what she was feeling because she was beginning to feel less.

The fact that thought didn't terrify Sinta told her all she needed to know.

* * *

 **17th:** Damon Millers, District Twelve Male.  
 **16th:** Shual Armenteros, District Ten Male.

* * *

 **Okay so first - new SYOT posted. Please check it out!**

 **RIP to the fallen. You'll be missed.**

 **Schools MIGHT open on the 1** **st** **June so who knows what'll happen with me and work. Tbh at my updating rate, this story might be finished by then. Or nearly there. We shall see!**

 **Thanks for all your support guys. I hope you're enjoying these Games.**


	31. End This

**Chapter Thirty-One.**

* * *

The atmosphere had changed.

Britta sat atop a crate, picking the mud from underneath her nails, and looked out at Linnea and Neviya. Both were opposite sides of the supply pile they'd made. Neviya rummaging through an assortment of weapons, Linnea looking down at a little bit of paper she had in her hands, rolling it back up and putting into her jacket pocket.

She'd been honest enough to show Britta and Neviya what it said. Neither girl had much to say in response. The words were true but they had hit Britta more-so than it seemed Neviya or Linnea. Maybe it was lack of beauty sleep, or lack of much of a vibe, or whatever, but Britta found herself shaky atop the crate. Her nerves biting away at her. The sword in her hand slick with sweat that trickled from her palms and wrists.

 _Ugh. Fuck this._

"Hey guys!"

Britta's voice rang out and both Linnea and Neviya turned to look at her. She tried a smile – the go-to response for Britta – but what came out was a weird spasm of her lower lip and she gave up. Her sword waved in the wind as she gestured towards her.

"Come over here a sec."

Linnea and Neviya wandered over.

"Everything alright?" Linnea said, eyes shifting left then right.

Linnea had felt it her duty really to let the girls know what the sponsor gift had been. They'd heard the ding, awoken from their sleep, and the bond they shared seemed to compel Linnea to at least show that she was aware of the elephant in the room. Or Arena. They might have been friends in another time or place but Linnea knew Ailsa's words were correct.

Neviya did too. That was why since she'd woken up from a horrible sleep, she hadn't really said much to either of them. And then two more cannons had sounded and the quaking of the Arena floor, the shattering of the idyllic sunlight that shone from a beautiful sky; it all just looked sour and twisted and didn't sit well with Neviya. So, she thought, right now, best to ignore her fellow friends. _Allies._

Both Linnea and Neviya were reminding themselves of that.

Britta just sighed and twirled a piece of her hair awkwardly. "You don't need to treat me like the ditzy blonde I know I am," she said, only half-joking. "'Fess up girls. Things are different. I don't want to be looked at like I don't understand what's going on. I do, ok. I make jokes about wanting a cocktail, emphasise on the first syllable, but I killed just the same as you. Altia's face is burned into my retinas just the same. I see her every time I close my eyes."

Neviya shifted uncomfortably. "We're not supposed to care about them."

"And yet, boo-hoo, we do. Maybe we aren't the monsters we were supposed to be but fuck that. Hopefully, Roarke will turn up soon with Destan, and we'll have another kill to our names," Britta said.

Her mind thought of her fellow District partner and felt nothing but resentment. Maybe he would be a lot easier to dispatch of than the poor girl from Twelve. _When did I start putting names to their ratty, dishevelled selves?_ She'd been raised in Four to believe anyone that wasn't a Career was nothing; pointless. Yet it was true that she couldn't close her eyes without seeing Altia. She hated it.

Linnea understood exactly what Britta was getting at and felt the paper like a lead weight in her pocket. She placed a hand over Britta's knee and tried to smile, but just like Britta's attempt, it fell flat. "We're in this together, I promise. Until we can't be any longer."

"Then can we at least try and talk. We don't even need to laugh," Britta said, seriously, looking between Neviya and Linnea who couldn't meet her gaze. "And if me cracking jokes offends you so much, then I'll try and stop."

Linnea just nodded meekly and sat down on a patch of grass. Her patience was wearing thin, if she was being honest. Whether Roarke appeared or not, she couldn't feel herself being up for waiting much longer. The sky was still blistering hot and all she felt was the rays beaming down on her and making her feel more and more antsy.

Britta didn't know Linnea was feeling similar, but she looked at the treeline, both of them did, and wanted to just abandon the plan they'd made. They could find Destan by themselves. Get rid of him. Join up with Roarke.

The waiting seemed to be something Neviya wanted to do out of loyalty for Roarke that even Neviya knew was stupid. The situation was growing more and more fragile by the second. Neither girl wanted to make the first move, to call this plan quits, but neither girl knew they'd be able to wait much longer.

"I see something."

Neviya's voice shattered the cool, crisp air that was permeating between the girls and all eyes fell on where her finger pointed in the direction of the northern treeline. Breaking through from the natural growth, a solitary figure stumbled forwards, hunched over with a dusty, moth-eaten shawl that hid its face from view.

"That's not a tribute," Linnea said, heart in her throat, holding her spear firmly in her hand. "What the fuck—"

"Wait," Neviya said, raising her hand for silence.

All three girls just watched as the figure shuffled forwards. In its hand swung a lantern, its dim glow lit by a candle behind the glass. Wisps of grey hair fell from its forehead, dangling in front of its hidden visage. Underneath the shawl, Britta audibly gagged at the protrusion of ribs poking from warty, swamp-coloured skin.

The girls looked at each other.

"Yeah I ain't fucking with that," Britta said. "No one told me I'd be facing some scary old bitch. Give me Chancellor any day of the week."

"Would you shut up!" Neviya snapped.

Britta gawped at her. She closed her lips and nodded, embarrassed, guilty.

When the crone looked up, the shawl fell from its face to reveal two milk-coloured eyes, a bulbous noise and thin, bloody lips. A twisted smile rose from its face and a knobbly finger rose, pointing straight at Britta.

A whisper scratched its way from the figure's throat and what happened next made all three girls cry out and scramble for their weapons.

A swarm of rats scampered from the bushes, ran over the woman's feet, and headed straight for the Career girls.

"Well it seems like we're coming across a bit boring," Britta shouted.

 _I knew we should have left!_ Linnea thought bitterly. She raised her spear and threw it, skewering the crone in the chest and she slumped to the ground, hopefully dead.

The rats didn't stop, however. Britta was the first one to pick up a belt of knives she had and threw one straight into the fray. There was a squeal but the tidal wave of rats overwhelmed its corpse and Britta knew her action made no impact.

"Up here!" Linnea shouted.

She grabbed another weapon from the pile they had, this time a hatchet, and led the girls to the side of the Cornucopia. When they realised what she was doing, Neviya nodded and helped Britta up, pushing her onto the golden horn and jumped up herself, grabbing hold of Britta's extended hand. As the rats finally reached where they'd just been standing, Linnea leaped upwards and both girls held her, pulling her up with ease and all three stood side-by-side, watching the rats squeal below.

"Anyone got the number for pest control?" Britta said.

Neviya just looked at her. Linnea couldn't help but smile which only made Neviya's annoyance quickly subside and immediately she too just grinned at their ally. Maybe the Games were taking their toll on their friendship, but neither girl could deny what the other two's company did for them. Even with mutts trying to get their way up the Cornucopia and slipping down; as a team, they still felt undefeatable.

It was that kind of confidence that helped them as Britta continued to throw her knives, Neviya crawled onto her stomach and sliced at the rats, decapitating several, and Linnea did her bit with the hatchet, killing as many as she could get her hands on.

The rats did not seem to pose as big of a threat as they did a warning.

All three girls knew what it meant. As the squeals slowly dulled down and the final rats realised this was useless, running off to the forest and leaving the girls a sweaty, breathless heap, they looked to the sky and silently cursed the Gamemakers.

 _Roarke, hurry the fuck up!_

They all shared the thought.

For now, they would be allowed to wait. But not much longer.

If the Capitol deemed their plan to be a failure, or it was taking too long, then this was their consequence. Next time, a twisted old lady and some small rats would be half of their problem.

Things had to change, otherwise shit would most definitely go down.

* * *

The two girls looked up in awe of the tower.

"Rest up there?" Maisley asked.

Carys nodded and Maisley extended her arm, wiggling her fingers as a gesture of kindness. Carys shook her head and stepped in front of Maisley, leading the way into the tower, gazing at the staircase that wound up and up on the side.

Maisley stood outside and sighed, kicking a lump of mud, hoping Carys wasn't looking back at her. She knew what Carys was going through right now but she couldn't blame her for it. Castor and Ponche dead on the first day. Half of their alliance – the two people Maisley had roped in first of all – gone like that.

She loathed Destan. She hated whoever had killed Ponche. It wasn't as if Maisley hadn't actually liked them. _Especially Castor._ When she thought of a joke he'd crack, or the smile that could settle anyone's nerves, she wanted to cry. Maisley felt lost in this Arena. She felt lost with Carys who hadn't spoken to her since Castor's death. The only reason she stuck by Carys was because in those trees by herself she was as good as dead.

She needed Carys.

She hated that she felt so useless without someone around her.

Carys heard Maisley's delicate footsteps and didn't look back over her shoulder as she led her ally up the staircase. She quickly lost her breath about halfway but didn't stop to rest. Truthfully, Carys just wanted to be left alone. Opening herself up had gotten her nowhere. The walls that were solidified by anger and hatred at the world had slowly started to ease because an alliance of good-natured people had allowed her in. Now two of them were dead. Perhaps the brightest of them all; his flame snuffed out by a single knife.

She'd tried the nice, open thing and it had come to bite her in the ass. But she couldn't shake Maisley because she did not have the heart to tell her to go. And because she really, deep down, still longed for the feeling of companionship. Maisley gave her that. She was just a little girl – small, dainty, fragile. The torment in her mind did nothing to quell Carys' rage and anguish.

"This is pretty," Maisley remarked as they finally reached the room at the top of the tower. "Would you like the bed? I don't mind the floor."

Carys looked at the four-poster bed and at Maisley's polite smile. Then her eyes fell on the floor – the cracks in the wood, the dust motes swirling, the cobwebs and spiders and shook her head. "We can share, Maisley. There's more than enough room."

It did Maisley a world of good to hear Carys' voice again. Even if it was barely above a whisper, it was progress. She needed progress. If they ever stumbled upon another tribute again, she needed Carys to be strong enough to fight. Not this brow-beaten, soul-crushed version of the girl that had knocked the shit out of several dummies back in the Capitol.

"We can share then!" Maisley said. "We did this a lot back home. Sleepovers and all."

"Yeah, sleepovers. Cool."

Maisley frowned when Carys flopped onto the bed. Instead of lamenting over her ally, Maisley moved towards the window of the tower and leant against the wall, looking out at the beauty of the Arena. She could see thick black billows of smoke rising in the forest from somewhere not too far away. If there had been a fire, it had now gone.

Although the sun was still bright in the sky, the day had been long and Maisley knew that surely evening would soon hit them. It had been a mind-fuck what the Gamemakers had done and she was expecting the same thing to happen once more. Night-time to replace the day.

Carys looked at Maisley as trumpets blared into the sky and moved closer to the edge of the comfortable silk sheet. She played with her fingers in her lap, twisting them awkwardly, biting her bottom lip as a horrible, unforgivable thought went through her mind.

 _Push her._

She didn't know why that thought latched itself to her brain. Maybe it was Castor's pale, dead face in her mind. Or the absence of Ponche so quickly. Or the fact that she was just here, in the Games, with a liability now attached to her. Carys just wanted out of this Arena. The quicker the better. She hated how much it was getting to her. She absolutely detested it.

When she stood up, Maisley gasped, and Carys fell back consumed by guilt and felt incredibly ashamed of herself that such a thought had dared to even be considered. Then she caught Maisley's face, horror-struck, and she wondered if Maisley had somehow realised what she was considering doing.

"I'm so sorry, Carys."

 _What?_

She ran to the window and looked up at the fading face of Shual. He had a rigid sort of smile across his jaw. Not quite happy to have his picture taken but he was doing his bit for the camera all the same. It was a stab to the gut. Grief tore through Carys and she slumped backwards, punching the floorboard, anger splitting her open as all Maisley could do was watch her continue to pummel the planks.

"I'm sorry," Maisley repeated.

She was scared of Carys, she realised. Scared of these emotions that she couldn't keep in check. She'd obviously known Carys was a bit of a loose cannon but Castor had always seemed to be able to help her with that. _What good can I do?_ She was torn between knowing if she left her only defence she was dead, but concerned that Carys was useless now anyway.

The fact she thought feeling grief over the loss of a District partner made her useless made Maisley herself feel just as guilty. _These Games are fucking me up._

As Damon's face disappeared from the sky, Maisley's expectation came to become reality and the clouds were replaced with glittering stars, the sun now the bright, full moon in the sky. Maisley decided she preferred the night-time. It wasn't as scary as it was tranquil. Something about the fireflies that now stood out amongst the trees and the grass hill below made Maisley feel that she could sleep tonight and not worry.

Or at least do her best not to.

Carys watched Maisley sit by the window and she crawled back over to the bed. Shual was now dead and there was nothing she could do for him. Carys could have easily given up there and then – Ponche, Castor and now Shual. _Spelt._ Her mind could have gone towards shutting down and Carys wouldn't have blamed herself for it.

But it wouldn't be fair on those that had died for her to give up the life that they'd had taken from them. She looked at Maisley and all thoughts of leaving her left Carys' mind. She would do her best. Channel this anger into something useful.

She no longer felt as connected to Maisley as she had done, but she didn't hate the little girl either for saying no to Destan and Nikos. Both were just doing their best to survive.

At this point, that was they all they really could do.

Carys had tried her best to be someone that she really wasn't and it hadn't worked. So, she would try to be a stronger version of the girl she did know. And Maisley – she would have to die eventually.

That was just the way it had to be.

* * *

"I hope he's alright," Bryce said.

Thinking of Celestin as they walked through the night-time forest, Bryce was doing everything in his power not to break down. He was exhausted – not just tired at this point, but exhausted. Every joint pulsed with agony, every muscle spasmed with pain and his eyes felt so heavy his head was pounding. It was the end of the day, maybe even past midnight, but they didn't stop walking.

He hadn't asked Sheridan why. She seemed so focused on where they were going that he couldn't find it in him to argue with her, or suggest otherwise. He was so glad for her steadfast presence. Even though seeing Sheridan at the front, where he genuinely believed Sinta would have been, left him feeling torn apart at what had gone on so far with his friend from home.

"She's still there, right?" Sheridan asked.

Bryce looked over his shoulder at Sinta who was a few short paces away, trailing just slightly behind them so she couldn't hear Sheridan's question. Ever since losing Celestin a few hours back, Sinta hadn't even tried to catch up with the two of them. Bryce wanted to go back over and check she was alright but even he was beginning to feel that maybe space was what she needed right now. He couldn't be there the way that she needed because he didn't understand what that actually was. He hated this. And he hated Chancellor even more – because in death, he had ripped this poor girl apart.

Bryce nodded and tried to smile at Sheridan.

She looked at her ally and couldn't hold back the surprise she felt that out of everyone, Bryce was the one that was up at the front, still surviving, and trying to do everything he could to keep his mental strength as fixed as possible. She wanted to tell him how proud she was of him but she didn't want to come across patronising. She'd never been good with niceties like that. It had always come out awkward, sarcastic or sometimes even mean. But she was proud of Bryce. This strength he was starting to convey at least seemed to be holding him together much better than Sinta was coping.

"Should have seen it really. _Fire_ flies," Bryce said, trying to laugh but it feeling forced and silly. "At least it's stopped now."

Sheridan nodded. Her arm had caught some of the inferno and hurt a lot, but she was dealing with the pain as best as she could. "I hope Celestin is okay. Least his face wasn't up there gracing us with his lovely smile."

"That's sarcasm, isn't it?" Bryce asked.

Sheridan chuckled. "Yes Bryce, it was sarcasm."

She missed Celestin too, which struck her as odd because she hadn't really said much to the guy back in the Capitol. Maybe it was just the grounding sense of realism that he brought to this. He was part of the vomit-up-rainbows alliance but seemed to have his head firmly on the ground rather than up in the clouds. A kindred spirit of sorts.

 _I genuinely hope he's okay,_ Sheridan thought.

The trees were pretty much the same as they had been this entire time. Bryce longed for the pond again, a sense of familiarity and calmness. Maybe it was what Sinta needed, back there, her footsteps dragging. When Bryce looked over his shoulder at her and finally she caught her eye, she smiled and his heart fluttered just a little. It was the same smile he'd come to know Sinta for but it didn't reach her eyes. They seemed dark. Staring straight ahead, barely registering Bryce was there.

She seemed to drift, not walk. _I hate Chancellor. If I could, I'd kill him again,_ Bryce thought.

"We'll find somewhere soon, I know we're all tired," Sheridan said.

"It's alright, I'm tired but the safer we are the better."

"I'm worried about her, you know," Sheridan confessed. "Very worried."

"I know."

"I don't think she's going to make it, Bryce. I know how hard that must be for you to hear. I hate saying it, but—"

"—I agree, Sheridan."

He wanted to cry as he said that. Because this was the girl that had pulled him from the darkest of his thoughts and made him somewhat believe in himself. This was a girl made for light and colour and love. But these Games had taken their toll and if he wanted to live – which he did, he'd give anything to see Zoya again – then Sinta was potentially an obstacle in that goal.

Sheridan noticed a tear in his eye and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We don't need to hurt her. We could just leave when she's asleep?"

Bryce winced and wiped the first tear that rolled down his cheek before the dam burst open again. _No more water-works!_ "I think, right now, we are the only two things keeping the final fragments together. If she's alone, I hate to think what might—"

"—I know."

Sheridan hated herself just as much as Bryce hated himself at the thought of leaving her. She was so determined to be a better person that she had been drawn by Sinta's presence and with everything Sinta did, she saw Saraya. If Saraya had been cracking in the Games, bloodied hands because they'd taken the life of a monster, Sheridan would have done everything or hoped whoever was with her would try to piece the girl back together.

This torment was ripping her to pieces. It was doing the exact same to Bryce as they continued walking, both unsure of their next step.

Sinta, meanwhile, didn't mind the walk through the woods. Somehow, she'd stopped her mind from all those horrible thoughts and was doing her best to smile when Bryce looked over, and keep up with the determined presence of Sheridan that she so admired. She missed Teak, Altia and now Celestin, but they were simply background noise to the spiralling of words going through her mind.

She wanted to become whole again, but was finding it difficult to bring the shards together into a full shape. Hopefully, with Bryce and Sheridan, she would manage to find that connection again. She hoped and prayed she did but part of her also didn't care that much. Sinta just wanted out of this Arena. Alive. She didn't want to die.

Chancellor had looked so scared. So absolutely terrified in his final moments. She didn't wish it on anyone.

"I'm tired," Sinta finally said aloud, the first words she'd spoken since what had happened to Celestin.

Neither Bryce nor Sheridan seemed to hear her which made Sinta look around their surroundings, surveying what was nearby. Through the treeline, she caught sight of something that wasn't just green and natural, but what resembled something like a rock or boulder.

"Hey guys!" she called.

Sinta ran towards it. As she broke through the trees, she saw the wide-open entranceway to a cave embedded into a hill that continued deeper into the forest. It was pitch-black and she couldn't see or hear anything. Her eyes felt heavy, though. Her mind foggy. Her hands twitchy by her side.

Sinta yawned. "Guys?"

When she turned around, she couldn't see anyone. _Oh… oops…_ Sinta squinted to try and see what was inside and took a tentative step forwards. She stopped suddenly as a new emotion twisted her gut. Fear. She was terrified of this unknown variable and suddenly panic struck through her. She was alone, now. Suddenly, fearfully, unapologetically alone.

 _Maybe this is good,_ Sinta suddenly thought. Maybe she would no longer be dragging down her allies into the dark caverns of her mind. If she was going to continue falling, then at least she wouldn't be taking them with her.

Maybe it was—

"Sinta!"

Bryce and Sheridan suddenly appeared. Sheridan's face was bright red and she grabbed Sinta by the shoulder, shaking her angrily. "Don't do that! You can't just leave, Sinta. You could have—"

"—I'm sorry," Sinta said, shaking her head, closing her eyes. "I didn't – I don't – I—"

There was a noise from inside the cave that caused Sinta's throat to clamp tight. All sets of eyes – Bryce, Sheridan and Sinta – looked into the cave at the sheet of pitch-black that obscured the inner-depths.

Sheridan took a step backwards. "Guys. I don't think—"

Sinta took a step towards the cave. Bryce watched her with horror as something moved near the edge. All thought of leaving Sinta, of letting her dwindle so he could survive, left his mind in an instant and he was reminded of the girl that had hugged him, held his hand, and made him into the person he now felt that he was becoming for the better.

He yelled and pushed Sinta from the cave's entrance just as the paw broke from darkness and dug its razor-sharp claws into his forearm. Flesh tore apart into a bloody pulp as Bryce was dragged into the cave, screaming and kicking and crying and… and…

Sinta stared into the darkness. "Bryce?"

The silence of the night-time was replaced with the agonizing screams of Bryce and the ripping, the _tearing,_ of her best friend. There were hungry roars and growls and a snarling as Bryce's screams became gargled chokes and then—

 _BOOM!_

Sinta looked up at Sheridan. "Bryce?"

Sheridan's face paled completely and she felt her knees go wobbly. She shook her head. Sinta's eyes closed, and her head hit the floor. Sinta had fainted.

"Bryce…" Sheridan echoed, staring into the cave. Another roar and she saw movement. Sheridan didn't waste a second. She scooped Sinta onto her back, struggling under the added weight, and scampered into the forest as fast as she could.

With tears pouring from her eyes and Sinta limp against her shoulders, Sheridan did everything she could to keep going, not give up, and put as much space between them and… _Bryce._

A broken sob ripped from her throat and she stopped herself from allowing the next one to break free.

 _Bryce._

He was gone.

Half the light from Seven, now nothing but darkness.

* * *

Destan looked at Nikos wearily, rubbing his eyes.

"Not sleeping?" Nikos asked, lip half-curled into a grin.

"Not a chance," Destan replied, yawning with a stretch of his arms and legs. "You?"

Nikos laughed. "After what you did to that kid from Eight? When pigs fly."

Destan didn't reply to that. He just stared at Nikos from where he sat, slumped against the tree-trunk, the spear resting ever so closely to him and the belt of knives still round his waist. One of them was tipped with red – an ever-present reminder of what he'd done.

Destan could feel his mind slowly unravelling. Where there had been patience, there was now nothing but irritation. In the moment of meeting the other alliance, he had felt a blossom of hope in his chest that maybe as a group of five, they could genuinely kill the biggest threats in the Games. And then he had felt stupid and silly and hated that glimmer of doubt over his own strength. Destan was a _Career._ He was _trained._ He was supposed to be able to fight for himself. He was supposed to able to do this – the Games, the killing, the everything.

The fact he needed more people both annoyed him and upset him. And then they'd said no and those emotions had just come to boiling point. However, in the Games, shouting and stamping a foot in frustration was not how he had settled things. A bloody knife was now clasped round his waist. Proof that he could do what needed doing in this Arena.

Nikos met Destan's gaze and refused to let it drop. Seeing Castor's face in the sky hadn't seemed to scratch at all against this armour Destan had up. Nikos wouldn't admit it to anyone vocally, but that had worried him. Scared him, even. Here he was with someone that moments before killing another kid, he'd been ready to stab him in the back.

Now, Destan wasn't even sleeping, giving Nikos no opportunity to do anything but stick with the plan they'd made. Part of Nikos was happy that he hadn't been forced to take a life, and part of him was also content with waiting to see what this plan would birth. But another part of him just wanted to leave Destan to his own unravelling and let him deal with the consequences of his actions alone. Because there were consequences.

Not even a Career could kill someone and walk away unscathed.

It stayed that way for another ten minutes. Destan and Nikos dreary and sleepy and on edge but neither relenting, just watching the other in silence. From the corner of his eye, Nikos saw something blue wrap a faint, ethereal limb around a tree branch and he felt embarrassed at the sudden fear spike in his chest.

"Uh, Destan."

Both boys looked at the wisp that hovered not too far from where they sat. Whilst Nikos felt silently fearful, Destan was aggravated because he was so tired, his legs were beginning to feel heavy and he didn't want to have get up just yet.

"Do we follow?" Nikos asked.

"Paths are open both ways. Which means—"

"—oh."

Both boys raised their weapons as Roarke appeared. He looked at the wisp as it popped out of existence and then his eyes fell on Destan and Nikos.

"Shit," he said.

Nikos just watched Destan. He knew from watching in the Capitol that Roarke had been his ally. But then the shit-show of a bloodbath had happened and Destan had been left alone. Nikos would not make any first move unless he absolutely had to. He found it oddly amusing watching Destan's eyes narrow, then widen, then relax as a smile curved onto his lips. As if he was trying to choose the mask he was going to wear for this particular interaction.

He was an open book to Nikos. Even if Destan believed himself to be unreadable.

"Roarke, how lovely to see you."

The boy from Two just stared at Destan as he slowly stood up. Nikos noticed his eyes flit over to Destan's spear but he made no move to grab it, only stepping towards his old ally and clapping him on the shoulder.

Destan was surprised that Roarke wasn't flinching, or grinning that silly lopsided grin he'd always wore in the Capitol, or averting his eyes from Destan's. He met Destan's eyes with steely resolve and Destan felt something in his stomach like he'd felt back when he'd realised Chancellor was dead.

Still, he didn't let anything show and just smiled. "How have you been?"

"How have I been?" Roarke echoed, incredulous.

 _Oh Destan,_ Nikos thought, almost with pity. He looked so silly.

"Seems like you found those blue things. Looks like they've led you to us."

"Oh yeah," his eyes then fell on Nikos and Nikos now realised that Roarke held a bow in his hand, an arrow slack in the string. "Us."

"After what happened to Chancellor, I realised that if I found someone to join up with and then come and find you, we could take out the girls. Provided that's still your intention?"

If he was supposed to be threatening, Roarke didn't seem fazed. He just sighed, awkwardly held a hand against the back of his head, and nodded. "I saw them kill quite a few in the bloodbath and just ran for it. Been trying to find you since."

Destan wondered if Roarke had used any of those arrows on someone. He couldn't imagine the Roarke that he'd seen crack in the Capitol being able to kill anyone, let alone the three Career girls he'd been like a puppy towards. But a plan was a plan and Roarke seemed into it.

Destan clapped him on the back again and motioned towards Nikos. "Seems like things are finally coming together."

"Yay," Nikos said.

Roarke just looked at Nikos. There was a three-second delay between their eyes meeting and Roarke trying to smile. It didn't fool Nikos but he attempted his own smile back. "Three against three, then. Seems like the odds may finally work for us."

"You volunteered, didn't you?" Roarke asked.

Nikos nodded. "Yeah."

"Then maybe we do stand a chance," Roarke said.

Destan looked at his little group, having finally found Roarke, and felt some sense of control working its way back into his mind. Where there had been strings unravelling inside his head, they were slowly starting to come together again. He now felt that he could attack the girls and come out alive.

Whoever this Roarke was that he now looked at, maybe he'd be a bigger problem than he'd anticipated, but he could deal with that later. And Nikos, as untrustworthy as he seemed, was not a trained Career.

The board was finally set.

Destan's game was about to begin.

* * *

Albie hadn't stopped walking since Roarke had left.

It had been hours since Shual had died, leaving Albie completely alone, and she knew exactly where she was headed. Whatever Shual had been trying to do to calm her, and whatever Albie had been attempting for his sake, she'd given up.

The anger was like electricity under her skin. She relished in its source of motivation that drove her on through the woods. In each step, there was the grief she felt for Armina and Shual, but that grief was what gave her drive and that drive is what led her towards her destination.

Occasionally, the trees would claw into her skin and a trickle of blood would splash against the grass. The fireflies seemed to accompany her as she moved silently through the forest. She enjoyed their presence. They reminded her of what she'd been planning with Shual, their glittery glow a comforting companion. If she was going to win these Games, then the logical mind that she knew was still there underneath layers of these unbottled emotions, told her that Shual and Armina had to die anyway. Their deaths were paving stones towards victory. The callousness of those thoughts only made her guilty which only continued to fuel her anger.

As the trees slowly grew thicker and became more densely packed together, Albie realised she was nearing the end of her journey for the time being. She had her knives. Her backpack of food and supplies. Back in the treetop village, she'd hidden some of Shual's supplies for when she returned, not wanting to be weighed down too much. The knife was, like the fireflies, a companion she needed to keep her mind focused.

Between the foliage, she slowed her pace as the clearing came into view. The black-tipped grass was ghostly in its appearance, the light breeze of the night-time air swaying the blades this way and that. She could see the golden tinge of the Cornucopia and took another cautious step forward.

Albie was not going to be an idiot about this. Maybe she was feeling consumed by so many emotions, but those emotions would not kill her. She refused to die when Armina and Shual had fallen. She would win for them just as much as she would for herself.

The next footstep snapped a twig and she winced but nothing seemed to be happening. She was still too far away. Inch by inch she crept closer until through the treeline she could just make out two figures sat side by side, one of them which looked asleep, the other's hand buried within a backpack, rummaging for something.

 _Two of them._

She hadn't seen a Career's face in the sky since Chancellor and unless something had happened, Albie's pulse began to quicken, her heart-beat escalated, and she surveyed the area around them until they fell on the solitary figure nearer to the treeline.

She hadn't expected herself to feel such hatred towards these three that hadn't actually done anything, but Linnea, Neviya and Britta were just as bad. They stood for the same ideals that Roarke did. In Albie's mind, they were the same person. The same monster that she refused to be scared by.

In the girl's hands, she saw the reflective glint of some sort of weapon and knew she had to be careful. Albie moved backwards and slowly edged round the circular treeline, towards where the Career was but far enough back so she wasn't spotted. The knife seemed to almost twitch by her hip as she put together the idea of what she could do if she played her cards right.

If she weakened the pack, then her plan would work even better. She would fulfil what she and Shual had been committed to.

Another step, and another, until something different caught Albie's eye. She furrowed her brow in confusion until her eyes registered the milky-white glare of some figure in the grass, a shawl wrapped round it, a lantern smashed by its side. She gasped and then clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to stop her heart from beating, or the fear that wrapped its horrid hands round her throat.

 _Stop, Albie. Whatever it is it's dead. Gone. Focus!_

She took a deep breath away from whatever the old woman had been, most likely an attack against these girls that of course they'd overcome, and focused in closer on the Career girl as she came into view.

 _Linnea._

Albie could feel the sweat on her forehead and didn't bother wiping it away as she inched closer and closer. She thought back to the old woman behind her, the knife at her hip, and the plan cemented itself in her mind. With a snap of a twig, a rustle of the leaves, Linnea's eyes met Albie's and she scampered backwards.

 _Please don't call your friends. Please don't. Please—_

The footsteps were quick behind her as Linnea gave chase but Albie was already in place. The woman's body was heavy with death, rot creeping in, ribs poking her as she threw the muttation over her still self. Albie held her breath as she heard the footsteps, peeking out from under the wisps of grey hair as Linnea stood, only a few inches from where she was.

She'd come alone because no matter what a Career might tell themselves, they were arrogant fools, who in the moment couldn't deny the thrill of personal victory. Whether Roarke's arrow had been meant for her or Shual, it did not matter. Whether he'd meant to kill Albie or Armina in the bloodbath. None of it mattered in the slightest.

The Careers were as vile as the corpse Albie was hiding under. She would take down a monster.

Albie lunged forwards, grabbed onto Linnea's legs, and the Career girl tripped with a yelp. Before Linnea could do anything to stop Albie, she crawled up her back, took out the knife and stabbed, over and over.

 _Over and over and over and over and—_

The blood gushed forth and even when the _BOOM_ shook the Arena, Albie continued stabbing, feeling the anger course through her veins and channel out into the blade that was covered in red. Her hands were drowned in Linnea's blood as she finally stopped, sweat-sodden hair dangling in front of her face, panting to catch her breath.

In the night-time glow of the moon, Linnea's still body seemed oddly peaceful.

Her back was a complete messy slab of meat and muscle. Albie felt nausea in her stomach but did not allow herself such weakness. Roarke had said a simple sorry to Armina and that had been it. Instead, Albie just ignored Linnea and crept slowly back into the forest.

It wasn't time just yet to draw the other girls in, but soon it would be.

 _One down, four to go._

She hadn't forgotten about Roarke or Destan.

They were the villains in this story, and Albie would do anything in her power to stop them from claiming victory.

 _Anything._

Linnea's dead body proved that.

* * *

 **15th:** Bryce Hayfield, District Seven Male.  
 **14th:** Linnea Halvard, District One Female.

* * *

 **Dayum son. This chapter was fun to write.**

 **I don't want this to seem like some silly, deus ex machina kinda thing that tributes meet quite easily in this story, but honestly? The answer simply is that the Arena is smaller than they've realised. The wisps are a Gamemaker intervention to bring together potential conflict if things get stagnant. Mutts are sometimes thrown in to show cracks in alliances, or bring them together. There's always a reason behind what I try to do and I hope you're enjoying these Games as much as I'm enjoying writing them!**

 **Again, check out my newest SYOT. All the details are on my profile.**

 **Question!**

 _ **One more death until final twelve, who do you think it will be?**_


	32. Wrong Direction

**Chapter Thirty-Two.**

* * *

 _BOOM!_

Neviya bolted upright.

The cannon had shocked her from her sleep. Around her, the scene was now quiet save for her heavy breathing. Pitch-black grass rustled in the moonlit breeze, the forest ominous in the distance and the stars a shimmering blanket in the sky above.

She looked at Britta, sat just by her side, both girls looking tired and agitated. Neviya wasn't meaning to become so frustrated at Britta, so annoyed, because Neviya could see she was really _trying._ It was all she could really ask of her. They'd all killed in the bloodbath. All done their bit yesterday to help fend off the rats.

They were a team. United. All three of them.

 _All three of them?_

She realised who was missing and heard the cannon in her mind. Neviya stood up, panicked and then glanced back down at Britta. "Where's Linnea?"

"She was by the trees last I saw her," Britta said. She suddenly latched onto Neviya's panic and pushed her way upwards, staring into the darkness of the forest. "Surely not?" Britta wanted to laugh at the silly notion that the cannon could be—

 _Could it?!_

Both Neviya and Britta knew how unlikely and preposterous such an idea was, but both ran side-by-side towards the forest, hearts beating rapidly, sweat building on their foreheads. Britta looked to where Linnea had last been standing and wished she'd paid more attention. It hadn't crossed her mind anything could go wrong.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"Linnea!" Britta yelled.

Neviya looked at her and almost shushed Britta. She didn't, though. In her mind, their ally would stumble from the trees, spear in hand and laugh confused at their quaking at the sound of a cannon. They were in the Games. Cannons were becoming the music playing in the background.

"She must have gone looking further in," Britta said, pointing out towards where Linnea had last been. "Maybe she found someone?"

"Maybe," Neviya said, gritting her teeth together in both fear and frustration. If Linnea had ventured off by herself, then she was stupid. They were a team for as long as it could last. Yesterday had proved that. There was no need for personal victories just yet. "C'mon."

The two walked side by side into the forest, almost tip-toeing nervously, edging closer and closer until they spotted the horribly twisted muttation from yesterday. Its lamp was shattered and Britta felt the crunch of glass beneath her feet.

The fireflies that had become common companions in these Games drifted between the two girls and hovered over something just by the old woman's corpse. Neviya squinted her eyes to get a better look.

 _Oh no._

 _No._

 _NO!_

Tousled blonde hair draped over the muddy ground. Grass swaying peacefully between the open fingers of two hands. Britta gasped as Neviya stumbled backwards and both their eyes moved down to look at the face-down body of Linnea Halvard.

"No, no, no, no, no—" Britta stammered, almost tripping over her feet as she turned around, the forest becoming a blurry mist that she couldn't focus on.

Before she realised what she was doing, Britta was running through the trees, her sword clamped between clammy fingers. Tree branches sliced at her cheeks as she blindly and stupidly worked her way through the woodland trying to spot _someone_ or _something_ that could have killed their friend.

She would kill them. Britta's mind couldn't contemplate what had happened. Altia's death had been something but this-? _What?!_

Standing by Linnea's body, Neviya hadn't moved, letting the axe in her hand start to slacken as she bent down to look at the bloody mess that had become Linnea's back. Multiple stab wounds had torn apart the jacket and sliced into her skin. It had to be another tribute. Whereas Britta had foolishly ran forwards, Neviya's senses heightened and she raised her axe immediately, saying a silent farewell to Linnea and heading back to where they were based.

Knowing that her friend and ally was dead, somehow struck down, Neviya knew she couldn't risk her life to go after Britta. It took everything she had in her, all sense of loyalty willing her forwards, to smother that down and return to the Cornucopia. _Come on Britta, don't be stupid… come back… come back…_

She thought of Linnea, stoically sitting away from them all, trying to smile and be the kind friend that Neviya and Britta were probably externally much better at acting. It didn't mean Neviya hadn't liked Linnea just as much. Perhaps, even more-so than Britta. Because she was real. She saw these Games for what they were and could still smile despite the fact.

 _I'm sorry, Linnea._ She shouldn't have been asleep. She should have been watching. Guarding. Always on alert. In case the unthinkable happened – which it now had.

Neviya saw rustling in the trees and again, fear spiked as she grasped onto the axe, but it was just Britta, looking downcast, barely able to walk forwards.

Seeing Britta and knowing Linnea's body wasn't too far from where they were, Neviya felt something else that she was deeply ashamed of.

 _Relief._

No longer would she have to wait in trepidation for the moment where she'd have to make the decision to fight Linnea, someone she cared about. She didn't have to see it or do it. And that was why she felt relief. And why she felt guilty.

Britta finally reached Neviya, tears in her eyes, streaks down her face as she tried to wipe them away. Britta knew this was the way it had to be but could not bring herself to accept what had just happened. Violent rage swirled in her stomach as she thought of whoever had done this to Linnea, but overwhelming grief threatened to overspill also.

"Neviya…" Part of Britta wanted a hug, and again was reminded of the cameras, and realised how utterly stupid she was being. But when she caught sight of Neviya, no tears, not even a wobble in her lip, something else hit Britta in the face, stark and cold.

If she had been trying to prove to her allies that she was taking this seriously, did understand how this worked, but could still be a good friend, then Linnea's death had shredded that notion to pieces. Her death was the final nail in the coffin.

When she looked at Neviya, the apparent disconnect to the way Britta was feeling and the fact that Linnea was now dead, Britta did not see the girl she'd come to become so close with.

Their friendship was over. This was now just another alliance.

An alliance that had begun to fall apart.

* * *

Celestin woke from the worst sleep he'd ever had.

For a boy that had always loved sleep, it made him unutterably grumpy.

The ropes that held him up in the lower tree branches slackened slightly as he untied a knot. His head was pounding with a headache caused from tiredness and it did nothing for his mood. The fact his ankle continued to throb with the pain. The fact that it was now back to night-time and he could barely see three feet in front of him unless some irritating flies decided to grace him with their presence.

And the fact that he was now alone. _Alone._

It was all adding not just to the annoyance he felt, but the fear, the anxiety, the worry. He had spent his entire life living to the beat of his own boring ass drum. He'd never needed nor wanted anyone else's opinion because he'd never cared to listen. Here he was, though, feeling completely ripped apart at the loss of his alliance, at the death of Teak and Altia that still hung heavy over him, at every single cause and effect that had sent ripples through the short time he'd spent taken away from his cosy life and forced into this box of horrors.

He just wanted out. He wanted to win. Live. Become a better person. Make something of the life he'd always taken for granted. It felt like compassionate, positive nonsense and perhaps that was just Bryce and Sinta rubbing off on him, but he _liked_ the idea of going home and making something of himself. And to get there, every one of them had to die.

The smiles of Bryce and Sinta no more. Sheridan's sarcastic glower yet realistic and pragmatic perspective gone entirely. He didn't want them to die. But he didn't want them to win either.

 _Ugh._

From where Celestin sat, he took out a flask of water he was lucky to still have and the small blade by his hip. He took a swig of drink, feeling the coolness on his tongue and relishing in the relief something so bland as water could give him, and began to carve absent-mindedly into the tree branch.

He knew he couldn't win if he just sat up here, the Gamemakers would probably send Chancellor's ghost after him or something. But he didn't want to get down just yet. Truthfully, he was scared of what might happen to someone without another pair of eyes to look out for him, or the shadows lurking in the big bad woods that might lick their lips at the sight of Celestin blundering around with his irritating ankle.

Nothing made Celestin want to leave the safety of the tree until the light _ding_ filled his ears with music and he looked up. He hated the sheer delight that played on his face in the form of a shit-eating grin and he couldn't help but reach his arms up to the sky as the canister fell into his hands.

Before removing the lid, he read the note that had been scrawled onto a small scroll of paper.

 _You don't need to be alone. There's someone out there who would happily see your face again. You know who I mean – B.  
P.S. Use this on your ankle._

 _Oh Breanna,_ Celestin thought. He knew exactly who she meant. When he rubbed the slimy ointment on his ankle, something cool became absorbed into his skin and he couldn't help but gasp at the pain-relief that flooded his veins. It wasn't exactly healed, but it almost felt numb, and numb was better than sparks of pain flaring through his leg with every step he took.

A Victor couldn't exactly win by not using their legs. If there was a way, he'd gladly try, but sadly it'd never been done before. _Thank fuck for you, Breanna._ He hated the way he'd been acting towards his mentor and knew that if – no, _when_ – he made it out of this place alive, he would give her the biggest hug he'd ever given anyone.

He looked back at the note and thought of the person Breanna was alluding to and the decision was made in an instant. He could go and find Sheridan, Bryce and Sinta, but perhaps their companionship was no longer what Celestin needed. Perhaps there was someone else out there, someone he could work with until the end, that he would rather spend the rest of his time in the Arena with.

He felt bad for his old allies, but things had changed with the fire and he was adapting alongside it.

 _And truthfully, if I had to choose between me versus Sheridan in the finale, or me versus Maisley…_ he grimaced at the thought, but knew it to be true.

He would find the little shrimp himself and hopefully kick-start the fight that he needed for his life. He'd already begun to care so much more for his existence than he ever had done before.

Now was the time to put those thoughts into action.

He eased himself from the tree, smiled as he put pressure on his ankle resulting in no pain, and set forwards.

Time to find Maisley.

* * *

Iva was trying her best to forgive and forget.

But she couldn't get past Damon's dead body, just lying there peaceful, arm flopped out to the side. She couldn't get past his screams of pain, the shuddering of agony as he'd had a nightmarish sleep, and the way that she had lied to him about Altia. It all made sense what they'd done – what Henley had done. The logical part of Iva, the part that told her she needed to get over it for her own survival, wanted to slap Iva round the face.

But the part that was winning was the irrational. The unforgiving part. The cynical view that Henley could have done more but had chosen _not_ to. She'd always known Henley was the outsider looking in and they'd chosen Henley together for a selfish, self-serving reason, and she had failed in her duty as their healer.

Iva hated the fact she was letting those thoughts win out over the fact that she knew, deep down, there was nothing that could be done. Damon's death still hung like a heavy shroud over her head. She couldn't get over it.

Henley, meanwhile, led the pair of them through the woods. She was putting the cottage in the back of her mind. Even she couldn't deal with being in there anymore after what she'd done. It was a tranquil, beautiful home now tainted with Damon's blood. The girl that had entered had still thought she could find a place in their alliance, continue to cling to the fact that she had been put on this world to help others, but the girl that had left was a murderer.

The funny part was, as she heard Iva's heavy breathing and footsteps through the forest, Henley had completely accepted this part of her. Any healing that needed doing, any deep introspection over who she had become, could happen when she actually had time to think in the safety of the outside world.

She was a killer, no longer a healer. She was an outsider because it was a position she felt more comfortable in being. Where she'd tried to fit in, there was no longer any need nor desire to do so.

 _Tonight,_ Henley thought. She couldn't kill Iva. But she couldn't be around her anymore. When the night-time fell back into blissful day, she would leave Iva as she slept and that would be it. No more alliance because she didn't need nor want it. No more responsibilities over anyone but herself.

It was nearly the halfway point of the Games. It was time she had a refocus of priorities. And Henley was number one. She was sorry, but that was just the way it was.

Maybe Iva had approached her because she needed something from Henley, but Iva would have to work it out for herself. They were no longer in this together – that just wasn't how it could work anymore.

Iva was none the wiser to Henley's plans and the two continued to slink through the forest. They'd gone in what felt like circles since leaving the cottage, in a spiral motion round the central Cornucopia. They'd found a pond earlier that evening, and after sharing night-time watch over the Arena and potential attacks, they had passed an ominous looking cave and were now set for wherever this new path led them.

Overhead, a murder of crows flew in a formation that sent a chill down Henley's spine. At the snap of a twig, Henley instinctively looked back over her shoulder at Iva and offered what smile she could force onto her face.

Iva, though feeling resentment towards her ally, unfounded resentment, mirrored the gesture and jogged to catch up with Henley.

"It's quiet, isn't it?" Iva asked.

"Very."

"He'd be filling the silence with some silly thing that'd happened back home," Iva said, reminiscing about Damon and again feeling that bitter sadness curdle inside her stomach. "Getting him to shut up was tricky. I hadn't worked out how."

Henley could feel the bloodied knife by her hip and wanted to throw it away because of what it reminded her of. Instead, she clung onto it as a lifeline, a persevered piece of the Henley that she knew could actually do this. It may have been a mercy kill, but it was still a kill.

She had that to her name. The potential to do the unthinkable if it meant she could survive this horror-show.

At the mention of Damon, Iva fell silent again and the next however many minutes seemed to fly by peacefully and without incident. The trees were tall sentinels standing guard in the night-time sky. The fireflies golden in their company. Henley and Iva walked side-by-side until in the distance, the trees seemed to come apart and both girls looked at each other, panicked but resolved to continue.

They were no longer in this to run away from what had to happen. Even Iva, always thinking about Damon, wanted to win this _for_ him. Maybe she could even use her status as a Victor to bring on some punishment against his awful Father for all he'd done to such a sweet soul. It was what gave her drive – to see her Mother again, and to win in Damon's memory.

Henley, thinking about her impending abandonment of her ally, moved silently through the trees as they split apart to reveal a blockade of sorts. Both girls were confused as they looked up at the twisted thorns leering over them. Black and gnarled up, curving and overlapping one another, the thick-rooted wall of spikes took up the entire side of this part of the Arena. As far as Henley and Iva could see, the left and right to them was blocked with the thorns.

Perhaps they'd reached this edge of the Arena and could move on no further. Iva thought back to the pond they'd found, the cave with its foreboding entranceway, and wondered about heading back. Just as she opened her mouth to make the suggestion, she noticed out the corner of her eye movement as two figures came into view.

They were only a few paces away, already settled by the thorns, on the grass with their supplies arranged around them. One girl was asleep, resting her head on the ground as the other noticed Henley and Iva and bolted upright.

Once again, they felt like the intruders, and once again, Henley and Iva's instinctive reaction was to grab hold of their weapons. Henley with her club, the bloody knife at her hip, and Iva with a sword that she had.

She still felt clumsy holding this weapon, not knowing anything about proper technique, but at the sight of two more tributes, she thought about Damon and the fight that she still had inside of her. Iva was not a runner. Whether flight gave in to fight or the other way around – this was where she was right now.

Henley too.

"Sinta."

The girl standing up was Sheridan, who nudged the sleeping girl with the tip of her boot. The girl from Seven stirred and when her eyes fell on Henley and Iva, she jumped upright and grabbed onto the knife, her hands shaking.

"Iva?" Henley asked, looking at her ally, only slightly turning her head.

She too was resolved in what had to be done. Maybe Henley was planning on leaving Iva, and maybe Iva could not forgive Henley for what had happened, but in this moment they were a unit together. One mind, one weapon, one drive.

"I don't want this to happen," Sheridan called out. "But I don't think we can just leave it this time."

"We've bumped into one alliance already," Henley replied. "A second one? Yeah – yeah we can't just walk away."

Neither pair of girls wanted to fight, but neither pair was ready to just walk away. The wall of thorns seemed to almost ripple in the night air, and as one unwrapped itself, swirling outwards and slicing the air between the two – a sort of no man's land – the decision had been made for them.

Henley was surprised that it was Sinta who came barrelling towards them, ducking underneath the thorn and slicing upwards, trying to cut into Henley's stomach. She jumped back and kicked out, her boot connecting with Sinta's knee. She yelped with pain which kick-started Sheridan into motion.

The girl from Eleven was quick as another thorn branch sliced where her feet had been, jumping over it and barrelling into Henley.

 _Fuck,_ Henley was quick to bring up her club to block the blow but was tackled into the grass, wincing as pain flared up her elbow. The two met eyes and she reared her head back and slammed it forwards, connecting with Sheridan's nose. Wetness burst out and she grimaced as Sheridan hollered in pain.

Meanwhile, Iva sliced and cut at Sinta who was surprisingly agile. What she could remember of the girl from Seven was a smile and a bright laugh. This was not that same Sinta. Iva leapt backwards as Sinta attempted her own blow and again, flashes of Damon came to mind that only spurred her on.

They'd all lost people. All lost parts of themselves. These were four normal girls, forced into this scenario through actions that had never been their fault. Sheridan versus Henley. Sinta versus Iva.

Neither wanted to be here, but neither had any choice as the thorns continued to play a part in keeping them together, forced to lock arms.

Henley knew she lacked any sort of technique and Sheridan had a viciousness to her that Henley was trying to bring forth. Their weapons connected and Henley moved closer towards Iva, not purposely, but to try and avoid what Sheridan was doing.

"I'm sorry—" Sheridan called out, flourishing her arm outwards and cutting into Henley's shoulder. Her nose was broken and Henley knew the pain that flared down her own arm was karma's way of biting her in the ass. She didn't need Sheridan's apology. She didn't want it.

This was what it had to be. As a thick black branch of thorns came towards her, she ducked, Sheridan ducked, and watched as it collided with Iva and Sinta.

Both girls yelled. The branch flailed upwards and came striking down, cutting into Sinta's forearm, and wrapping its way round Iva's feet.

Iva was picked up, left to dangle in the air, as both Sheridan and Henley just watched her get thrown and tossed around like a ragdoll. She screamed, pain in her legs, as she connected with another thorn and felt it bury into her thigh.

Henley wanted to fight her way towards Iva as Sinta gasped in pain, limping back over to Sheridan. Iva was by no means dead or incapacitated, but the moans of pain were blocked by the alliance in front that were now stood side by side.

She mirrored Sheridan's apology as she looked over at Iva. "I'm sorry." And off she ran, away from her ally, leaving her to the two girls.

Iva watched Henley bolt off and tried to pull herself from the thorns. As they bore deeper into her skin, she yelled, biting her tongue and tasting blood as chunks of her leg were ripped apart. Finally, she fell free, landing awkwardly on the grass, and crawled forwards to where her sword lay.

Sheridan's foot kicked the weapon aside and Iva collapsed down, bitter tears in her eye, staring up at the two girls that looked down at her.

 _Damon. Henley. Spelt._

 _Mum._

Iva had become a better person through this experience – or at least a version of herself that had probably always been there, clawing at the surface. She'd tried to open up and allowed a friend in that she'd never have thought possible. Through blurry eyes, and the pounding of her heart blocking out any other sound, whatever Sheridan had to say was like a fog hanging over her that she couldn't make out.

Then came the pain, short yet fiery.

Sheridan drew the knife across her throat and watched the girl fall still, dead on the grass, the thorns weaving their way back into place and freezing.

Henley heard the cannon and stopped running, landing on her knees.

She knew who it was and knew that now she was completely, one-hundred percent alone.

And that thought was alright with her.

It just had to be.

She stood up, said farewell to Iva, and proceeded into the forest, disappearing into the night.

* * *

 **13th:** Iva Giorgi, District Nine Female.

* * *

 **A slightly shorter and quieter chapter this time round.**

 **Halfway through the Games! Congrats to the final twelve. It's been lovely tormenting you :)**

 **Thanks to all you cool cats and kittens for the support. Love you all.**


	33. Fireflies

**Chapter Thirty-Three.**

* * *

Each had their own plan circling their minds whilst oblivious to the others.

Nikos stumbled over a tree root and cursed harshly, almost taking Destan to the ground with him. He didn't want to be anywhere near the boy from Four. The urge to stab him and run still continued to be an ever-present thought in his mind, but the added complication of Roarke left him doubtful that he'd make it out of that particular scuffle alive.

The only reason Nikos, now three days into the Games was still stuck in an alliance where trust was bottom of the list, was because he did not want to die. So when the inevitable happened and the alliances clashed – girls versus boys – he wouldn't stick around long enough to have any kind of input.

 _Let the trained imbeciles do all the dirty work._ The more they did to each other, the higher his chances of making it out of these Games alive.

Destan, trying to smirk casually over his shoulder at Nikos' little trip, couldn't help but feel the nervousness thick in the air. The three of them were not waiting around any longer. This was it. Their journey back towards the Cornucopia where they would take down the three bitches who each thought they were the Queen Supreme. It had been a long time coming. Yet, the anxiety, the insecurity, the everything that he'd always felt growing up in the shadow of his mother, would not leave him alone and it left him frustrated. Roarke, with his bow in his hand, had confessed to killing two tributes.

 _Two!_

Destan couldn't believe it, but something in the steely, focused face of Roarke next to him, told him it must have been true. He had to be smart about this. Let Roarke take down one, maybe two of them, and then dispatch of him quickly. Nikos and Destan could then take out the rest. And then Destan could somehow take down Nikos.

 _No, not somehow,_ Destan coldly reminded himself. _I can. I'm trained._ He had to stop thinking about his chances being so low if it came down to a normal, one-on-one fight. Without underhanded tactics, without ploys and fragile alliances, Destan would have to at some point strip all the layers back and just do what his training had been building up to. He was scared of that. So for now, he wouldn't dwell too much on the unknown future.

"This forest is never-ending," Nikos complained, finally breaking the silence.

Destan nodded irritably. "They'll all be dead by the time we get there." Doubtful, but the thought gave Destan momentary pleasure. _Ugh, I feel like Chancellor._

Roarke, with his bow in his hand, arrows on his back, and guard up always around these two, looked around at the forest and realised he had no clue where they were. He couldn't spot any glimpse of the tower that he'd come across, or the treetop village, or any landmark that might have given him a clue as to where they currently were. It was all just tree, after tree, after tree, after stupid tree.

He himself was beginning to grow frustrated. There had been so many cannons since he'd left the girls that he was worried. Even though it was silly to think it could be any of them, he thought about Neviya dead, or even Britta and Linnea, and panic would flare in his heart. It would complicate things if one of them was.

Roarke knew the moment the fight began, what he would do. His loyalties were non-existent in this group and through killing Armina and Shual – accidentally, his arrow aimed for Albie, a low-point so far – he just wanted to get things going. He was willing to do any self-patching up after the Games. For now, he just needed to find the girls again.

"What led you to the boy from Eight? The one Nikos said you—" Roarke said, drawing a line across his throat as he tried to grin playfully, anything to ease the sinister edge Destan was teetering on. "—wasn't it those blue things?"

Destan looked at Nikos and the boy from Three just shrugged his shoulders. "It's worth trying," Nikos said. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Destan thought back to his training session, the private one in front of the Gamemakers, and the show he'd promised. He'd killed Castor, sure, and they'd found Roarke. But if things became stagnant for too long then surely it would be in the benefit of the Gamemakers to get the ball rolling.

Every single thing they did was being televised. Sometimes it was easy to forget that. In the heat of the Arena, the reality show that they were in became something simple to push aside. But there were cameras everywhere. Destan thought of the Gamemakers and then his frustration at not being able to find anything that might tell him which way to go.

So, he looked directly in front of him, hoping that somewhere, the Capitol was watching.

"If you want that show I promised, give a guy a little helping hand. We need to get back to the girls. Show us the way."

The three stopped in position. Nikos continued to fight the desire to run. Roarke continued to try to fight the fear over who those cannons might have belonged to. And Destan continued to fight the impatience and anxiety that continued to curse him never-ending.

"I don't think—" Nikos started.

Destan shushed him and grinned brightly, a huge smile from ear to ear, as a blue wisp popped into existence just in front of the three of them.

"Perfect," Destan said.

 _Let's get this show on the road._

* * *

Maisley had an eye on Carys at all times now.

Whether Carys was aware of it or not, she didn't seem to mind. Every time Carys suddenly moved, Maisley would flinch. Every time she spoke, Maisley would think the worst was about to come. She hated it. She wished Castor and even Ponche could just come back and settle the atmosphere because Maisley had no idea what to do.

The childhood lies she'd fancifully woven with her friends in her bedroom would never work with a girl like this – so hardened and angry at the world. Though Carys looked more forlorn nowadays, there was still an edge to her, blunt at the moment, but Maisley was sure would become sharp the second anything happened.

She'd thought about running – a constant companion of hers ever since the tower. Maybe she'd get far on her own and subvert expectation. Or maybe, she'd just do what the bets and sponsors probably thought and… _die._

Every shadow spooked Maisley and it was becoming so inconceivably frustrating. This was not the Maisley she'd wanted to be back in the Capitol. She'd brought together a strong alliance placing herself in a position of protection. And now her longevity entirely depended on a girl that scared her.

 _I'm doomed._

They'd left the tower after waking up but hadn't moved much further. Carys knew it had been stupid but lying on the grass of the hill, staring at the starlit sky, had enabled her to try and calm herself down. Maisley had always been there on her peripheral but Carys hadn't paid her much attention.

The fact she'd considered pushing Maisley from the window had scared even Carys. She'd killed Spelt to protect Maisley, and there she was considering taking her life. It made Spelt's death seem completely pointless. But maybe that was the nature of the Games. She wouldn't be remembered if she died. Next year there'd be another District Ten female. Carys would become nothing but a statistic in some computer system.

 _Fuck that,_ Carys thought. She'd always been stubborn – used it in every fight, every argument, every one-way battle of words or action, even when she knew she was actually wrong. If the Capitol was going to see her as just another face or cannon, she'd prove them wrong. As she'd considered in the tower the idea that being nice or protective was no longer the Carys she could be any longer, she knew that she'd use every bit of pain and fury at the world to her advantage.

Every time Hale had told her to calm down, she would use that to channel into something productive. Which was why when she'd stood from the hill and motioned towards the forest, it felt good to be moving again, to feel the air through her fingers, the breeze in her hair, the glittery glow of the stars and fireflies buzzing around her.

She even smiled at Maisley. It wasn't a kind smile, but it wasn't insincere either. It was Carys knowing what she would now become to win these Games. It was an inner contract she'd signed to not feel guilty, not feel sad, not feel anything but an innate sense of understanding about what a Victor had to look like.

She was at peace with the concept. It felt lovely to be able to just walk in silence, without feeling like she had to fill the void with bitter words or rageful thoughts.

Maisley was a few paces in front as they broke through the treeline and came face to face with a woodland village. High in the trees, the huts were scattered amongst the canopy, branches poking through windows, vines wrapped around ladders and bridges. It looked lovely and as far as Maisley could see, there was no-one around.

"Should we explore?" Maisley asked Carys with a smile.

Carys nodded. Maisley felt a weird child-like fascination blossom in her chest and became embarrassed at the silly thought. Luckily, or unluckily depending on how she looked at it, the immature curiosity was snuffed out completely at the dried bits of blood caking somewhere underneath a rope bridge.

She wondered who it could have been. Carys did too, staring at the blood. A shiver ran down her spine at the idea of Shual being the one who had died here and she quickly looked back up, moving towards the ladder and hoisting herself up towards the first hut.

She helped Maisley and the two stood opposite each other.

"I'm hungry," Maisley confessed, her stomach rumbling.

Carys hadn't given it much thought, but she realised as she opened her last backpack, that they were down to their crumbs. "Maybe there's something growing we can eat?" Carys thought aloud, looking at the trees. She chastised herself for not paying more attention in training at these stations. She'd tried her best, but the knowledge went through one ear and out the other.

It was just easier to beat the shit out of a dummy than stare absent-mindedly at some grapes. Berries. Whatever they were.

"C'mon," Carys said, motioning towards the rope bridge. "Let's keep looking."

Maisley followed Carys obediently. She couldn't say no anymore. A no had killed Castor and this girl in front of her, that was supposed to be her ally, was no longer someone that Maisley believed she could trust. It made Maisley anxious just being in her company now. A wicked, violent thought raced through her mind as Carys continued to walk forwards, her back to her, and Maisley tried to stop herself thinking it.

The knife she had, however, made the thought impossible to get rid of.

 _Fuck._

As they continued to work their way through the treetop huts and bridges, Maisley almost losing her footing over a rope bridge, a cloud of fireflies hovered near to where Carys and Maisley were. The two watched them, golden little bodies gently fluttering by their ears and in front of their eyes, and Maisley couldn't help but jump as they changed colour.

"Green?"

Carys just looked at Maisley and shrugged her shoulders. The entire group of fireflies had gone a light shade of green and dispersed towards the trees. Carys knew in the pit of her stomach that something bad could happen, but she was fascinated all the same and when the fireflies began to gently flit between leaves, she couldn't contain the gleeful surprise as fruit began to grow at the smallest touch of a green firefly, a bountiful supply of food right in front of them.

"Oh my god," Carys said. "Thank you." She felt stupid thanking a fly but all the same, as her stomach rumbled, she couldn't help herself from grabbing a large, ripe-red apple from a branch. Maisley took one as well and stared at it.

"It looks good," Maisley said. _Almost too good._

Carys was suspicious at the idea of the Gamemakers doing something good for them – providing them with sustenance, but at the same time, would it be fun to see two tributes just die of starvation? Surely, after Carys killing Spelt, after everything they'd been through together, it might be more interesting from a Capitol's perspective to see how their story played out.

"I'll do it if you do it," Carys said to Maisley.

The little girl stared at the apple and then up at Carys. "Okay."

They both bit into their fruit and relished in the juices that ran down their throats. "Fuck," Carys said, grinning. All thought of what she was prepared to do, even to Maisley if she had to, was vanquished for a second as she marvelled in the taste of the apple.

She stared at Maisley and Maisley stared back, both actually smiling genuine smiles. It felt almost normal, Carys realised, as the two just stood there, and part of her allowed a flicker of guilt that she'd promised herself she'd no longer feel, to spark in her gut.

There was a ripple of light just above Maisley's head as she continued to eat the apple, and the world seemed to suddenly slow down. It was as if someone had taken the forest and swirled their finger through it. The trees became blurry paint strokes of green and brown. Each star seemed to balloon in size as Carys looked up at the sky and smiled serenely as the moon shrunk to the size of an apple. She continued to eat the piece of fruit in her hand and wiped her mouth as she reached the core and dropped it to the ground.

Her mind felt foggy yet it was relaxing. She swayed, left and right, a soft, soothing sound leaving her lips as her eyes fell back from the sky onto Maisley.

She froze. Her eyes widened and her knees became jelly, her heart thudding in her chest as she stared into the eyes of someone that wasn't Maisley, but someone she could recognise, someone she'd tried to force out of memory ever since… ever since…

"Carys?" It sounded like Maisley, a softer voice, but as the figure took a step towards her, all Carys could remember was the field in District Ten, the innocence of her younger self as she wandered in believing they were her friends, and this… this boy in front of her… taking her hand… pulling her closer…

She screamed and the blurriness of her world became even darker and mistier, the apple's poisons seeping through her veins and she pulled out the knife in her hand and lunged at the villain before her. There was a girl's scream but it sounded distant and impossible to Carys.

All she could feel were hands round her throat. It was this boy that had created the Carys that loathed the world and this boy that had made her try to become a better person in these Games. But it had been ruined and she would get her revenge. She would… she would…

Carys couldn't keep her mind focused but that girl's scream wouldn't stop even as the knife sliced open a deep wound in his forearm. Carys couldn't stand up straight – she'd intended to stab the disgusting boy's neck, not his arm. As she tried again, her knees gave way and she collapsed, the stars and the green fireflies, and the clammy, sweaty sensation of hands around her throat, the last thing she thought, heard or felt as her vision went dark and Carys fell asleep.

Maisley looked down at Carys. Her own vision was going funny, everything seemed wonky and uneven, but the one thing she could feel was the biting pain in her arm as warm blood trickled from an open wound and splashed… splashed… _splashed_ against the wood.

The sound was almost peaceful. A lullaby that sent Maisley to the ground, her head lulling sideways as she began to fall asleep to the apple's poison. The last thing she saw, as her vision became soft, beautiful swathes of colour, were two feet moving towards her, and a face that came into view, bending down to stare at Maisley.

 _Odd,_ Maisley thought, convinced she was now dreaming. _Celestin – you have mud on your face._

She smiled.

And fell asleep.

* * *

Albie regretted not trying to take her down.

When Britta had come running through the trees, sword out, panting and crying and clearly a visible mess, Albie had almost leapt at her. But something had held her back. This wasn't like Linnea where there was a clearer, sneakier way of taking her down. Britta was emotional and as Albie could attest to, emotions were sometimes bad, but also sometimes very good when doing what a tribute had to do in these Games.

Now, Albie sat on a tree stump, taking a swig of water and eating a stale slice of bread that she'd had from the beginning. Part of Albie felt something close to shame at what she'd done to Linnea, but that part of Albie was lost underneath a wall she'd constructed to keep such thoughts from stopping her doing what she had to do.

She'd killed a Career. One of the strongest competitors in these Games. It wasn't the person that had taken Armina and Shual from this world, but it was someone who still was part of the ideology they all stood for. She knew, deep down, she was becoming the very person that she hated, but Albie couldn't give in to that thought. If she did, she was lost, and trying to work through all these emotions was tiring enough.

There had been twelve cannons since the start of the Games, which meant she had now reached the halfway point. Two of those cannons were Careers, which left four out of the remaining twelve still trained tributes. The odds were still not in her favour but she refused to be stupid about this. If she continued to bridge the old Albie with the new, then she had the perfect formula.

At least that was what Albie believed. It was that belief that kept her going.

In the clearing before her, Albie saw a dozen or so fireflies almost play with each other, darting this way and that, overlapping their golden trail and buzzing around. It made Albie smile and it felt good to be able to still do that. Armina would have loved these fireflies. She wasn't silly or immature, but there was something so tranquil about her former ally and friend. It made the smile on Albie's face falter and she gripped the tree stump to try and compose herself.

Albie continued to watch the display in front of her until the colour began to shift. It was only one firefly to begin with, but as the yellow soon turned to red, she was amazed by the dozen or so fireflies leaving not a trail of harmless light, but wisps of fire that crackled and burnt the night-time air.

 _Fire._

She wasn't sure why they'd suddenly turned red, because after thirty or so seconds of demonstrating this new ability they had, they switched back to a peaceful yellow and flew away, leaving Albie alone once more.

It took a few seconds for Albie to realise what she'd just seen. The image of Armina's face was replaced by Shual, the two of them standing in the treetop village, surrounded by wooden huts and bridges that they'd planned to set alight and kill the Careers. If the fireflies had an unnatural way of creating fire then maybe… maybe…

When she stood up, the idea giving her a new sense of drive, another speck of colour suddenly appeared not too far from where they were. This time it wasn't fireflies and Albie looked curiously at a small looking ghostly apparition that hovered over a rose-bush. The blue pulsating glow made Albie once again smile as she moved towards it, but she stopped, frozen, as behind the blue wisp someone appeared.

She couldn't quite believe it at first, but as Roarke broke through from the darkness and his eyes landed on Albie, she didn't give herself time to believe it.

"YOU-!" She leapt forwards, threw her body into Roarke and he cried out loud, falling to the ground as Albie scrambled atop him. His bow went one way and the arrows spilled out into the mud. She saw Armina and Shual and the anger became unparalleled, the grief blending into one sheet of red that she saw as she pulled out her knife, the same knife she'd used to kill Linnea, and she watched Roarke's eyes widen as—

Albie was swept aside. Her head hit the ground and she groaned out painfully, her eyes going funny as they finally settled on Roarke being helped to his feet, a boy that looked like Destan helping him collect his arrows, and… and…

"Nikos?!"

Albie's anger at Roarke was somehow momentarily extinguished for the sheer confusion and almost relief she felt at seeing him still alive. It was odd but his presence immediately brought tears to her eyes and she couldn't help but throw her arms around him, wavering in his awkward hold.

It wasn't as if Albie had ever liked Nikos. She'd only ever seen him as an inconvenience really. But after Armina, after Shual, after everything, the sight of his stupid, gruff face made Albie feel overwhelming happiness.

When she opened her eyes, however, blurry from tears, they settled on Roarke and she stumbled backwards.

"Y-You're with – with – with him?"

Nikos suddenly looked ashamed of himself and nodded. "Albie it's—"

"Do you know what he did?!" Albie shouted. "Who he killed?!"

When Nikos nodded grimly, she sank to her knees and dropped her knife. Nikos knew who Roarke had killed, and he knew who Albie had teamed up with, and yet here he was, standing side by side with not just Roarke, but another Career.

She looked up and her eyes now narrowed bitterly. "I suppose you volunteers stick together, don't you?"

The words seemed to sting Nikos but it wasn't him who spoke next, it was the slimy looking boy from Four, who wore a calm smile on his face, almost as if he was trying his best to appease Albie. _Well, fuck that._ She couldn't stop staring at Roarke and her hands formed fists in the mud. _Armina… Shual…_

"Albie, isn't it?" Destan said.

"Destan. You don't have to—" Nikos started, but Destan held a hand up to stop him as he neared Albie, taking tentative footsteps towards her.

"I know what it must look like, how bad it might seem. But we're only together to take down the girls. A mutually beneficial alliance, that's all it is," Destan said, smiling at Albie. "I know what Roarke's done but right now, think about what's best for you and your chances, and perhaps help us?"

Albie looked at her knife and when she went to grab it, Destan flinched but she only stood up, holding it lax by her side. A smile played on her lips and she couldn't help but harshly look into Destan's eyes, then over at Roarke, and then back Destan.

"I killed Linnea," she said.

Destan's eyes widened. Nikos just stared at her. But it was Roarke's reaction, which Destan could not see, but Albie could over his shoulder, that gave her the most pleasure. His face paled and he seemed to stagger slightly to the right.

It was only when Destan turned around gleefully that Roarke composed himself and met Albie's stare. She knew what he was now feeling, because it was exactly what he had made her feel twice over. Where there was anger, Albie now just smiled at him, tilting her head slightly sideways, just _staring._

"I'm in," she said. "Two against four. How hard can it be?"

Destan clapped his hands together. Albie looked at him almost with pity because he was none the wiser to Roarke's quite obvious loyalty to the girls not too far ahead. He wasn't going to survive this.

 _And neither is Roarke,_ Albie thought. That she would make sure of.

When her eyes met Nikos, he was the only person that made her feel any sense of sadness over this situation. She understood, though. The logical part of Albie that still existed could not be mad at Nikos for the choices he had made.

But he was still just another obstacle, and with twelve left, an obstacle that she would have to overcome very shortly.

A raindrop fell on her nose and all four of them looked up at the sky, grey clouds hiding the bright stars from view and the moon sinking into the background. When their eyes fell back on each other, the downpour beginning, they all knew that this was it.

It was time to fight.

* * *

"It's raining," Neviya said.

 _No shit,_ Britta kept the thought to herself. Since finding Linnea's body, the two of them had barely said a word to each other. There wasn't anything more that needed saying. Britta did not hate Neviya, but she knew that with twelve cannons, whatever laughter they'd shared, whatever friendship had become whole and beautiful, was now nothing but memories. It felt almost liberating to Britta – no longer did she had to try so hard, to feel like she had to be the centre of attention, the life of the party. She could just be the Career she was supposed to be – what everyone expected of her. _And win._

Neviya felt very much the same but could not shake off the guilt she felt every time Britta looked at her, every-time she thought of Linnea, every-time she realised how easy it now would be having to do what had to be done.

 _District Two really have no idea,_ Neviya thought. She'd spent her whole life around such stoic, boring people who truly believed they were destined for the greatness of a Victor's crown. Even Neviya, though trying to remain as grounded as possible, had been swept up into believing it would have been easy. And it wasn't. Nothing, no matter how rigorous the training, could have prepared either girl for this.

Linnea's cannon and corpse just proved that.

"After this, yeah?" Britta said, wiping her hair from her face that hang sodden through the battering of the rain. She looked at Neviya and tried one of her grins again, and this time, knowing what was to come, it came across more honest than it had done in a while. "Get this done and that's it?"

"That's it," Neviya agreed.

Britta nodded her head, resolved to their future. "Alright then."

Both girls had agreed to leave the other after the impending fight. Roarke wouldn't understand, Neviya knew. When he'd left, the girls had still been swept up in the fantasy of their friendship and he would expect to find all three of them, side-by-side, a quick dispatch of Destan and then they could get back to normal.

Neviya couldn't stay around her allies anymore. When what was about to happen had happened, she would go it alone. Make it to the end the way she knew she could. She was glad Britta had agreed to that. From everything that they'd gone through together, the two shared respect, and that respect ran deep.

"Had to rain though didn't it?" Britta said, laughing. "What an atmosphere they've made."

Neviya chuckled back as a lightning bolt struck the sky swiftly, revealing the dark shadows of a group of tributes walking forwards from the treeline. Britta looked over at Neviya, eyebrows knitted confusingly, both glancing back to the trees.

"I counted four," Britta said.

 _What's happened?_ Neviya nodded. "Yeah…" The sudden nerves were unwanted but fierce in their attack on Neviya's optimism on the fight ahead. "Why are there four?"

"Let's just get this over with," Britta said, moving forwards.

She had spent her entire childhood and teenage years in Four believing she was a star in the sky. And as she'd trained, flippantly some might say, but still determined in her special Britta-esque way, she'd truly believed that she had what it took to win this. The experience had been grounding, but the experience was not over. She did not want Neviya to die, but she would have to at some point if she was to claim the title of Victor.

It didn't make her happy the idea of killing someone from home, but Destan had forced their hand the moment he'd flipped the script back in the Capitol. It was his fault. Britta was just finishing the chapter.

Through the thick rain drops and streaks of lightning in the night-sky, Neviya and Britta faced off against the four tributes in front. They immediately recognised Roarke standing there sodden and Neviya couldn't stop herself from feeling a slight flutter in her chest. Even now, the dorky smile she knew he had undernearth the grim expression he wore, made her feel happy.

Britta met Destan's eyes and both just sneered at the other. Mutual dislike made it easier for both of them about their course of action. He passed the spear between hands and she just rolled her eyes at his blatant showboating.

But it was the two between Roarke and Destan that the girls hadn't expected. Somehow, they'd roped in the pair from Three. Neviya had no idea whether that had been Roarke's doing and Destan had five enemies around him, as opposed to just three, or something else had gone on in their absence.

The girl, Albie, had been allies with the girl from Eight who Roarke had killed. Something told Neviya as that realisation flashed through her mind that indeed, something else had happened.

"Took you long enough!" Britta called out.

Neviya didn't have it in her anymore to roll her eyes, or snap at Britta for her comments. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Even with their decision to part ways, it was nice to still see the glimpses of the Britta she'd come to cling to still existing.

"Traffic," Destan called back, grinning. "It's a bastard."

"Made some friends?" Britta gestured towards the two from Three who just glowered back at her. Britta bit her lip to stop herself from saying anything else. They clearly weren't in on this back and forth between her and Destan. It felt silly but it felt somehow natural. The way his eyes just bore into hers, sizing her up, reminded her of the Capitol.

"Missing Chancellor?" Neviya called out, this time focusing in on Roarke. _Avoid suspicion._ "I took you for many things, but joining him to fight someone from home? You don't deserve the crown."

"I did what I had to do!" Roarke shouted back. "I don't care if you're from Two. Only one of us can make it home anyway."

 _Good boy,_ Neviya thought, almost grinning.

There would be time to grin later.

With the scene set, the rain and the lightning raging around them, the two groups stood opposite the other. Neviya and Britta knew that it was about to happen, and Roarke, Destan, Albie and Nikos readied themselves for the clash.

They all had their plans. Each oblivious to the other.

"Three…two…" Britta whispered under her breath, watching a cloud roll in, and then the lightning flashed and chaos to rival the bloodbath broke loose.

Nikos didn't waste a second.

But neither did Roarke.

As soon as Destan ran forwards with Albie by his side, Nikos turned around and bolted straight for the trees. He would not stick around to risk his head, not for some stupid Career vendetta. It was not worth it.

Roarke grabbed an arrow, watched Nikos begin to flee towards the forest, and pulled back the string to release it into the air. It soared upwards, arced back down, and pierced Nikos right through the back of the neck.

 _BOOM!_

The sound of the sudden cannon startled everyone. Neviya's sword swiped above Albie's head and she ducked, rolling in the mud to avoid her next swing. Both girls looked over at Roarke, rain pouring heavily on him as he tried to stumble his way back to the group.

Destan, in the distance, saw Nikos face-down dead and his mind became frazzled. _What the fuck-?!_ He looked at Roarke and then at Britta a few metres ahead of him and roared with anger. _I should have fucking known! I should have-!_

Britta's sword came towards Destan and he didn't have time to rage at Roarke's betrayal. He blocked the blow and slashed at her neck, Britta twirling to the left to avoid it and bringing her sword back up to try and slice into his shoulder. Britta saw it as some flashy dance she'd trained years for. Destan saw it as some aggravating bitch trying to murder him.

Roarke hadn't wasted a second and was glad for it. He didn't know Nikos that well, but he couldn't just let him run away. Not when they were at the halfway point. Right now, maybe he wasn't the biggest threat, but anyone could become one in the future. He had no idea what had gone on between Neviya and Britta, and he still felt a pang of sadness in his chest at the thought of Linnea, but he still had a fight to win.

He'd continue to do anything for himself, but also the girls he called friends.

Albie looked over and saw Nikos' body in the grass and then glanced back over her shoulder at Neviya.

"Sorry about that," Neviya said. "In our defence, we weren't expecting you."

Albie in that second wanted to punch her square in the jaw and knock the fiery determination from her smug face. But she didn't. Because she saw Roarke, bow in hand, and the arrow sticking out of Nikos, and knew that once again, the boy from Two had taken someone she cared about from this world.

It was always him. Somehow Roarke and Albie's fates had intertwined and she knew he would never stop. Whatever his reasons were, whatever his intentions, Albie did not care. In that moment, she saw red and ran towards him as fast as her legs would take her. Roarke wasn't quick enough to grab an arrow, wet fingers missing the fletching and he stumbled backwards as Albie knocked right into him, a mirror image of their encounter back in the forest playing out once more.

Only this time, Albie was not knocked aside.

"Please – please – I didn't—"

 _Armina. Shual. Nikos._

"I don't care."

With Roarke unarmed, his bow knocked from him, Albie stabbed into his chest and revelled in the cannon that tore through the Arena. Blood pumped from the wound and Albie didn't waste a second. She saw Neviya stare at her from where she had been giving chase suddenly freeze in her place, staring between Albie, the bloody knife, and Roarke's still body.

Their eyes locked. Albie smiled.

She bolted for the forest, taking a split-second to register Nikos' still body and say a silent farewell, before disappearing from the fight and into the moonlit woodland.

Neviya just stood there. _Roarke… Roarke?!_

A gut-wrenching sob ripped its way to her throat but she swallowed it down, blinking quickly to stop herself crying. _Don't, Neviya. Mourn him later._ She told herself the exact same thing she'd thought about Linnea. That this was just the way it had to be. And it was now easier – because she didn't have to be the one to do it.

Neviya turned her head and watched Destan and Britta trade blows. Britta was becoming frustrated but nothing could quite match the way Destan suddenly felt at the sight of Roarke now dead to join Nikos, Albie gone, and Neviya marching over to help her friend.

"Fuck this—" Destan charged forwards, throwing the spear aside, and barrelled into Britta. Her sword went flying at the unexpected approach and he pulled out a knife, grabbing onto Britta's hair and hoisting her upright, the bitter touch of the blade against her throat.

She struggled but he dug it in deeper, blood welling up from where the knife met her skin.

"Move again and I fucking swear—"

Neviya halted. "Destan. Please."

He shook Britta and again the knife bit into her throat, pain searing through Britta's body. In absence of everything Destan had believed he'd been building up to secure his survival, in the space of seconds it had fallen to pieces just like the bloodbath with Chancellor's body.

Every ounce of control he'd had over his life had fallen apart, twice. He blinked back angry tears and the nausea in his stomach did nothing to help the rage he felt. Britta had given up trying to twist from his grasp, the knife was so close to doing the unthinkable, and all she could do was stare into Neviya's wide-open eyes, a quiver in her lip.

"Let me fucking guess," Destan shouted. "Roarke came to you straight after the bloodbath?! Why the fuck did I not think of that?! Stupid fucking girls always fucking ruining everything. I didn't want this. I didn't—"

"What do you mean you didn't want this?" Neviya snapped back. " _You_ did this to our alliance. You are the cause of every shitty thing that has happened to you. It's no one's fault but your own."

She regretted shouting at him the second Britta yelped with pain. Her anger relaxed as fear drummed in her heart at the sight of Britta hanging helplessly. She knew, looking at Destan, there was only one way this was going to go.

Looking at Britta, the happiest, brightest, shrillest, most shallowest girl Neviya had ever had the absolute pleasure to meet, she felt tears fall from her cheeks. She had lost one ally in Linnea. She had now lost Roarke – a kindred spirit that had been the kindest boy she'd ever come across. They were good people who had done bad things and chosen a path that most others would find horrifying.

Somehow, they'd united together and through their strength, Neviya had found a determination. It was a determination that went against their bond, but it was the fire she needed to win this. For Linnea. For Roarke.

And now for Britta.

"I'm sorry," she said, face wet with tears, as Britta's body relaxed, a delicate smile on her face as she realised what Neviya was doing.

Both girls understood there was no way out. Destan had to die. For Neviya to win, so did Britta. It was just the way the Games worked. The way a Victor clawed their way to the crown.

"Win for me, yeah?" Britta called.

Neviya nodded, sobbed aloud, and threw her axe directly into Britta's chest.

 _BOOM!_

Britta's body went slack and Destan looked horrified as his hand let go, the knife fell to the ground, and he stumbled backwards. Neviya charged towards him, a knife from her hip-side belt taken out, and he shifted his body round to face the trees in terror.

The rain grew thicker and heavier as he ran for it, a knife whizzed through the air but through the harshness of the weather, it grazed over his shoulder causing Destan to wince in pain. He almost tripped over Roarke's body as a lightning bolt shattered the sky and blinded the two of them.

Neviya could barely see ahead of her. She slowed her pace to steady herself and watched as Destan fled into the forest. Another lightning bolt stopped Neviya in her tracks and she fell onto her back, scrambling around in the mud, trying to force herself to stand.

 _Stop, Neviya._

Her inner voice made her smother the frustration that threatened to drive her forwards blindly. Destan was gone. She had to stop herself from screaming and throwing another knife into the breeze as she walked back to the Cornucopia, staring at Roarke, her eyes then falling on Britta.

 _Britta…_

She fell to her knees by her body and wiped a strand of hair from her friend's cold skin. Her fingers traced their way up her face until she closed Britta's eyes, bowing her head and allowing herself to cry and shiver in the wind.

Somewhere in the forest, Albie was fleeing. Destan was blindly running. Neviya, near the Cornucopia, sat by the body of her dead friend and ally – alone.

Around the two of them, joining Britta in the afterlife, was Nikos and _Roarke._

She allowed herself to sob, knowing she would have to get over this, but knowing that right now, to hell with the entire world.

She'd killed Britta to get to Destan because she was dead anyway. And that had failed. She'd urged Roarke to lure in Destan so they could take him on. That had failed.

But her victory – she could not allow that to be her last failure.

For all of them: Linnea, Roarke and Britta, she would win.

She would _survive._

* * *

It was the end of the day.

As the rain came to a halt and the Capitol seal flashed in the sky, trumpets blared from hidden speakers and the tributes in the Arena watched the faces amongst the stars.

Most tributes saw Linnea, Roarke and Britta's defeat as a silent victory, a pat on the back that they'd made it this far, and maybe with their loss, could actually make it home.

Albie watched Nikos' face with sadness and continued running through the trees, as far away as she could possibly get from the others.

And then Bryce and Iva, two outer-District tributes, with their own stories, their own past, and their own now impossible futures, faded into the blackness of the sky as the six faces vanished from view forever.

The moon and the stars disappeared as the birds, the sun and white clouds drifted into view.

The Games were taking their toll on everyone. But it was a new day. All of them ready to fight, survive and _win._

Yet, like always, no matter how much they fought, stripped themselves of humanity, and became the bare bones of who they once were, only one could.

 _Only one._

And each had made the decision that it would be them.

* * *

 **12th:** Nikos Rioux, District Three Male.  
 **11th:** Roarke Lumally, District Two Male.  
 **10th:** Britta Somerset, District Four Female.

* * *

 **I think this might be my favourite Games chapter I've ever written?**

 **Just wanted to say that the support for this has been crazy. It's made it my most successful story in terms of reviews per chapter etc. Luxury had 31 chapters and 484 reviews, and when I got to chapter 31 for this we beat that so… just wow. Thanks sooo much it makes me feel great that y'all are digging this story as much as I am writing it.**

 **Might as well ask the same sorta question I did a couple chapters back.**

 _ **One more death until final eight, who do you think it will be? Who do you want it to be?**_

 **Listen to Rina Sawayama if you've never heard of her :) ok bye**


	34. Fragments

**Chapter Thirty-Four.**

* * *

For her entire life, Sheridan had never given the world a second chance because second chances were for losers.

It didn't take long for her to build up a particular perspective on her neighbourhood, her community, her District, Panem and its capital city. The world had a habit of chewing up any ounce of kindness and stabbing those sunny people in the back.

Then along came Saraya and Sheridan realised what an utterly awful human being she was becoming. It wasn't easy, and most of the time she still resisted change, but she had been _trying._ Because along came this girl of sunshine and she'd fallen for her.

That was why she'd been drawn to Sinta all along. If there was someone in this entire world that could match the brightness of Saraya, it had been the girl from Seven. She hadn't wanted to grow attached to anyone in her life, and especially being in the Capitol, it actually made things easier being the Sheridan of old.

But along came Sinta, fucking that all up, and now here she was, no longer the Sinta she'd tried to protect, but a Sinta that was barely the scraps of the girl she had been.

It was torturing Sheridan to see. Almost as much as her broken nose.

"I think she went this way?" Sinta asked Sheridan, though not looking at her, her eyes seemingly falling to the muddy ground and then the footprints that were visible by a tree stump. "I feel a bit silly trying this – in the Capitol I didn't learn much about tracking. But I think I'm getting the hang of it."

The way Sinta said it still had the enthusiasm of the Sinta that Sheridan had first met, but her enthusiasm was no longer about friendships and butterflies, but about this… tracking. _Hunting._

In Sinta's mind, it had been a lot easier to bury Teak, Altia and Bryce underneath as many layers and barriers that she could create. When she thought of Bryce, she didn't think of the screaming from the cave, she thought of the boy shaking on the chariot and if she fixated on that, then she felt like she could keep walking. Sinta was done with the Games. Done with everything around her and just wanted to be back on the wall singing with her friends and letting the world fly by.

So, this was what she had to do. It was almost easy really, being this detached version of herself, as if she were hovering in an out-of-body experience watching it from a bird's-eye view as this Sinta walked through the forest after another tribute.

Sheridan didn't seem, in Sinta's view, too fazed by what she'd done to Iva which made Sinta happy that the person she was with seemed hardened enough to help her. But even Sinta was ready for the inevitable clash between her and Sheridan. She didn't want it – but she was accustomed to this now. When Sheridan had to die, Sinta just hoped it wouldn't be her that had to do it.

"She's probably gone by now," Sheridan called out.

It was a new day and Sinta had surprised Sheridan immensely at the proposition of going after Henley. She still saw Iva, squirming for her weapon, and tried to bottle that down. She'd killed because that was just the way it had to be. She refused to allow herself to become the broken mess that Sinta had become the second she'd killed Chancellor. Such thoughts could come later – when she was safe.

But this was surprising her. Being on the hunt for another tribute. She almost hoped Henley was far away by now, but Sinta had been quick to suggest going after her, and with neither girl sleeping, Sheridan had a horrible feeling they weren't too far away from where she might be.

"I don't think so, Sheri'," Sinta said, smiling at her ally. _Please don't call me, Sheri,_ Sheridan thought. "Besides – she's all by herself. It shouldn't be too hard."

The way Sinta continued to smile as she walked blissfully through the forest made Sheridan's world collapse. She was giving up trying to bring the Sinta she'd grown attached to back from this shell. There was no point – not this close to the finish line.

And Sheridan couldn't deny the benefit of having another person by her side if the inevitable fight against Henley did happen. One on one, Sheridan was still pretty sure she was stronger, but from what she'd seen so far, anything could happen.

With Sinta, this weird, twisted version of Sinta, at least she had someone to watch her back against the girl from Five. Sheridan did not want to be a hunter of innocent children, but she herself was an innocent child. That was the horrors of these Games. Sheridan knew that and didn't fight against it.

If she wanted to win, she had already accepted it as fact.

As the trees continued to sway gently in the morning breeze and the sun bore down on the two girls, they walked side-by-side through the forest, ready for whatever was about to happen.

Two girls that had been through hell and one of them on the verge of collapse. The other – Sheridan hoped for herself – was strong enough to make it to the end.

It had to be true.

* * *

Henley could hear them following her.

Luckily, she'd been one step ahead for a while now, always staying out of sight and keeping as close to the trees as she could possibly remain. A voice inside her head was thankful Iva was no longer around to make sneaking through the forest a lot harder, and that voice she was becoming more and more used to. It was just the voice of a tribute, intertwined with the true voice of Henley from Five.

She knew eventually however that her luck would run out. With more and more cannons, and yesterday resulting in _six,_ there couldn't be much time left in this Arena.

Maybe it had been quick but to Henley, being in the actual Arena, it felt like a lifetime of running one step ahead of the grim reaper. She was absolutely terrified as more and more tributes died because it meant she was becoming one of the last few. Eventually, as the fight with Sheridan and Sinta could attest to, she would be forced back into the fray.

 _But not if I'm smart,_ Henley reminded herself. She still had her brain. It was clouded with more grittier thoughts, but it was still intact. At least she had that saving grace still going for her.

Though Sinta and Sheridan were not talking, occasionally Henley would hear a twig snap underfoot, or the rustling of leaves, or if they were being stupid, there would be the faint whispering not too far away. Henley had hoped as night switched to day, they may have fallen asleep, but their relentless, though slow pursuit, had meant that Henley hadn't received any sleep herself. She could feel how heavy her eyes were but was determined not to give in.

She hadn't lost Damon and Iva, she hadn't killed someone she'd called an ally, just to give up now because of a headache and exhaustion. She was sure the Capitol had lots of feather beds she could get all the sleep in the world on when she won. Right now, it was about staying alive. And Henley had an idea. An idea she hoped wouldn't come back to bite her in the ass.

In her hands she still held the club, round her waist a knife was clipped to a belt that she'd found in her backpack, and taking a quick swig of water and splashing a tiny amount on her face just to help keep her eyes open, she made a diagonal cut through her path through the forest, heading for what she and Iva had first come across after leaving the cottage.

 _Please be right… please be right._ The worst thing Henley could think of right now was that her fatigue had clouded her mind more than she'd thought and that she'd hallucinated something from the past few days. But after a few minutes of walking through the forest, keeping one eye over her shoulder, the forest lifted over the entranceway to a deep, dark cave.

 _Okay, okay, okay._ Henley took a deep breath and composed herself. She had no idea what was inside. Iva had been quick to march straight on past the cave as they'd walked through the forest. But if there was one thing Henley was sure of, this cave was not just here by coincidence. And if she thought of those deep gashes in the cottage's doors, or the wounds Damon had suffered from, and her knife piercing his heart… she knew this had to be where the bears were.

Her gut told her it to be true.

She peered into the darkness tentatively and was met with nothing but the sudden and hideous odour of animal faeces, gore and whatever the hell they'd gotten up to. There was blood splashed across the rocky entranceway and Henley inwardly shrunk at the sight of it. Her fear kept her rooted to the spot, her heart beating in her ears, as she noticed a small rock not too far from her feet.

Eventually, those girls would catch up. It was two versus one and Henley was not stupid. She did not trust her odds. But throw in a bear, lure it back to them and then get the hell out of dodge, maybe that was her best bet at making it out alive. She was at the point where she had to take risks. It went against her better nature being a tribute in these Games but with only nine alive, two of them still Careers, she had no choice but to go with what her gut was telling her was the best path forwards.

She picked up the rock and threw it. As it tumbled into the cave and struck something, the ferocity of the _roar_ that echoed from within uprooted Henley from where she stood and she bolted for it, heading back into the forest.

It took maybe five seconds, and maybe a little bit of a kick from their wonderful overlords, for her to hear the heavy paw-work of the muttation behind her. She daren't even look over her shoulder as something fell by her side – a small tree of sorts that had been completely torn and uprooted from the soil.

 _Fuckfuckshitshit…_ Henley panted, exerting every ounce of strength she still had in her and hoped and prayed and hoped some more that soon in the trees she would find the two girls that had decided stalking her was their next move.

She knew why they were doing it, but being the victim of such a move did not make her happy with it. In fact, as the bear thundered behind her, the momentary exhilaration just spurred her on even more as finally, Sheridan and Sinta, one girl bleary-eyed and barely able to keep her feet moving, the other with a horrible smile from ear to ear, appeared a few metres ahead.

"Oh fucking hell no!" Sheridan shouted, catching sight of Henley but more importantly, the horrific bear that was giving chase. "Sinta!"

Henley pulled out her club. The thorns had done some nasty work on Sinta but she seemed to be holding herself up well enough. Until she caught sight of the bear and Sinta's smile fell, her eyes widened and she shrieked in fear.

Sheridan managed to pull Sinta out the way from being struck by Henley's club as all three now turned to face the bear mutt. It was closer than she'd expected. Henley ducked under a bear paw that tried to swipe over her head and it barely missed colliding with Sheridan's face.

It was the biggest one of all. Monstrous and gargantuan. Saliva dripped from bloodied teeth and Sinta's smile, which had turned to a fearful frown, now seemed to curl up into an angry snarl.

"It killed Bryce," Sinta said.

Henley looked at the blood dripping from its teeth and noticed with revulsion that bits of flesh were flapping in the air from where it opened its mouth to growl and roar at the three tributes.

"What the fuck were you-?" Sheridan's question to Henley fell to silence as the bear attacked once more.

Henley watched it go for Sheridan again and tried to take this as her opportunity to run, but Sinta had other ideas and tackled Henley to the ground. She hadn't been expecting that and swung her club but with the awkward way her arm was now flopping around on the ground, it did nothing but hit the air and make a _whoosh-_ ing sound that did no harm to anybody.

With Henley on the ground, Sinta scrambled up and rolled out of the way of the bear's next strike. Sheridan helped pull Sinta back to her feet and the two girls looked once more at Henley, and then at the muttation in front of them. Henley scrambled backwards on her legs as it turned its horrific beady eyes on her and rolled out of the way as it reared onto its hind legs and then slammed to the ground where her body had just been.

She thought of Damon, lying on the couch, crying tears of agony but also tears of… happiness. Going on in some dreamy haze about the friends he'd been lucky to make. Looking at this lumbering bear and knowing it, or one of the other creatures, had been the reason that Henley had become a killer made her angry.

Sinta and Sheridan were about to run away when Henley forced herself up and ran towards them, swinging her club and connecting with Sheridan's shoulder. Her nose still looked wonky from where Henley had headbutted her but this caused Sheridan to scream even louder with pain.

Henley found satisfaction in that scream and was surprised at herself. _What am I becoming?_ She didn't have time to think it through as Sinta came for her throat, knife out as she slashed the air and Henley twirled out of reach.

With the bear behind her, slowly turning back around, Henley looked at Sheridan and saw Iva. She felt a sudden and horrible sadness when she thought of the fact that she was now alone. She'd always been the outsider of that group and here she was facing the thing that had been the cause of Damon's injury, and the girl that had killed Iva.

Henley had ran away from her ally for a reason though. She wasn't just angry at the bear and Sheridan, but she was mostly angry at herself. It might have been the voice of a tribute, but both just sounded so similar, she had no idea who was speaking in her mind anymore.

Maybe they were just the same person now. This was who Henley had become.

The bear lunged and Henley again moved out of its way, but the tree closest to them was a lot nearer to Henley than she'd realised and she hit it with some force, falling to the ground with an _oof._ The air had been knocked from her lungs as she stood up on shaky legs and watched Sheridan try to fend off the bear.

Sinta locked eyes with her, gritted her teeth, and lunged.

Henley brought up her club once more but Sinta wasn't going for her neck, she went for her stomach. Her arms wrapped around Henley and tackled her forcefully to the grass. Henley just stared at her. The girl had been all smiles and laughter from what she'd seen. But this was no longer that girl. As Sinta raised her knife, stared once over her shoulder at Sheridan running towards her with the bear, Henley and Sinta locked eyes.

"Please—" Henley found her voice saying, with all its strength gone, now nothing but the pitiful pleading of a fifteen year old girl who just wanted to go home. "Please—"

The knife did not waver in finding its target. Sinta sliced into her throat and rolled immediately off Henley, bloody fingers gripping hard onto the blade she held onto.

 _BOOM!_

As Sheridan grabbed Sinta's hand and fled the scene, Henley's diversion had almost killed the two girls. But it was now Henley's corpse that offered them another sort of distraction. It had been the one to gouge chunks out of Damon's flesh, but Henley was this bear's next meal.

It dug into Henley's body, teeth ripping and tearing as the two girls disappeared further into the forest. What had been Henley's way of trying to save her life, had been perhaps the very reason she had died.

The Games took what the tributes planned and told them no.

Because no one ever got what they wanted in the Arena.

Except perhaps the bear – it now had breakfast.

* * *

 _Hazy fields and sweaty hands._

 _And in the distance, a blood-red sun behind white, fluffy clouds._

 _The boys hold me down and I have no voice._

 _I can no longer scream._

 _I am nothing more than the grass they hold me against. We are one and the same. Two parts of a wholly broken straw-filled dummy. A victim to be toyed with._

When Carys groggily sat up, the world took a while to blend back together. At first, it was the confusion that uneased Carys, but then the headache came like white-hot lightning and Carys groaned, rubbing her temple with her fingers.

Slowly, pieces of blue sky and green leaves and brown bark slotted into place like a jigsaw and Carys met the eyes of Celestin Elan. Her body immediately switched to hyper-drive and her hand went to her side, trying to find the knife, but then she focused on what Celestin had in her hands and realised she was unarmed.

Her own blade was pointing at her.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Celestin said, eyes burning into hers. He motioned down to a figure that was lying in a heap next to him, head resting on his leg, and Carys realised that Maisley was slowly stirring awake. Blood dripped from a cut in her arm hidden beneath a bandage and Carys blinked at it. "Care to explain?"

Before Carys could say anything, a gasp of pain coming from Maisley drew focus and both Celestin and Carys looked at her. Celestin looked legitimately worried, helping Maisley slowly sit up, tenderly resting her wounded arm that was roughly bandaged up to rest over his knee.

"W-Where am I?" Her voice was clouded and misty, as if detached from the rest of her, but then her eyes fell on Celestin and light seemed to fill her from head to toe. "Celestin!?" She moved to hug him but her body ached so much she stopped herself, grinning at him earnestly, feeling the confusion of whatever had happened slowly ebb away.

Then the pain struck and she grimaced. Only this pain wasn't from a drug-induced headache, but the sharp bite of the slit in her arm, skin ripped apart from the knife that Celestin held. Fragments of memories slowly fitted together and even though Maisley couldn't quite understand what had gone on, she remembered Carys and the knife. She remembered Carys attacking her. Screaming, blade out, slicing into the person that was supposed to be her ally.

Any fear that Maisley held towards Carys seemed to increase in a matter of a second until she scrambled backwards, closing the gap between her and Celestin, pushing as far away from the forlorn looking Carys opposite from their place in the wooden hut.

"You attacked me," Maisley said.

Both Maisley and Celestin just stared at Carys and she had no idea what to say or do. She had images of the field, her ditzy younger self and her idiot delusions of friendship, twirling around in the sunshine, and then those… hands… always those hands…

A broken sob forced its way from her throat and she looked down, blinking back tears as the memories were like fiery pokers stabbing at every piece of Carys they could get their shadowy hands on. "I'm so sorry, I didn't – it was the – the fruit – I didn't –"

"You're blaming an apple," Celestin said.

Carys just bit her lip and looked at Maisley.

"She had one!" Carys said, looking at her ally, pointing her finger, aware that she sounded delirious, aware how silly it sounded, but knowing it to be true. Her eyes were wide and all the resolve that Carys had built up the past few days, knowing who she had to become and willing to become that person, was now overshadowed by the fear she felt at past memories she'd smothered under layer and layer of anger resurfacing without her permission. She was out-numbered and felt like the victim she'd refused to ever allow herself to become again.

Her entire hope now rested on this little girl from Six – a girl she had seen her younger brother in, a girl she had protected by killing someone. A girl that she no longer trusted.

Maisley looked back at Carys and then up at Celestin. She knew she'd had an apple. She knew that what Carys was saying must have been true for her own experience. She knew that this shaky, teary version of Carys was crumbling and was even more of a threat than ever before. Because Maisley had no idea what to expect from her. No idea what her next move might be or what her mind could tell her to do next.

She looked at Celestin and saw the boy that had just lounged around the train carriage, yet here was a boy that seemed to genuinely care for her and had sought after her in the Arena. Maisley had always known she was not cut out for the Games and would have to try and win through other means. She knew that she'd created an alliance to protect her and that alliance piece by piece had fallen apart.

She had been relying on Carys for something that neither girl felt any longer towards the other.

And along came Celestin. The final piece she needed to make it to the end.

"I don't know what she's talking about," Maisley said. "I must have passed out from the attack – I don't – Carys I don't know why you –"

"I swear," Carys' voice was now becoming shrill, staring at Celestin, eyes wide. "Maybe she didn't experience it the same, but what I saw wasn't Maisley. It was someone I've tried to forget about for as long as I can remember. It's this fucking Arena. It's fucking with me. I'm sorry, Maisley. I'm sorry."

Celestin did not hate Carys. As he looked at her, he saw a girl that had maybe tried to be strong, but was slowly falling to pieces. But he and Maisley were the last District intact. Breanna had told him to come and find her and though he would not die for her, he knew that he would do whatever it took to ensure she and him were the final two. _Because it'll be easier that way._

"I don't think Carys would hurt you intentionally, Maisley," Celestin said, honestly. She was strong. They could use strong. _For now._ "But you did, Carys. It's hard to just forget that."

Maisley looked at Celestin, then over at Carys, and nodded her head. "I forgive you, Carys."

In her mind, however, she no longer needed the wobbly protection of a fragile girl. She had Celestin. The other half of her District. Someone she knew she could depend on.

Which meant what Maisley had felt, as they'd walked across the bridge, knife in her hand, came again full force and flashed in her mind.

 _Kill Carys._

She didn't want to, but this was the Games.

So, she would.

With Celestin by her side, now it truly felt possible.

 _I can win these Games. I can actually win them._

* * *

 **9th:** Henley Pereira, District Five Female.

* * *

 **Shorter and again slightly quieter chapter after what we went through with the last one!**

 **We are down to the final eight which is incredible so well done to y'all. Two week deadline for my next SYOT so please go over and check it out if you haven't already! Guidelines and form are on my profile.**

 **Ok thanks see you with the next chapter!**


	35. Silhouette

**Chapter Thirty-Five.**

* * *

The grass was blood-stained.

Britta's body was gone – taken by the claw of a hovercraft. Neviya had watched the vehicular monster whisk her friend away, the final time she'd ever see again, and had done her best to think about all the good bits rather than her axe thudding into her chest.

Britta's compliment on her hair in their first encounter. Britta standing up on the table and denouncing Chancellor in front of everyone. Britta's blatant and unapologetic stance on being herself and fuck all the rest of them.

She was who she was and Neviya had never met someone with such a presence. She astounded Neviya, but she was now dead. All along, from the moment she'd volunteered, Neviya knew that she would make it home. She just had to. Why would she have volunteered if she truly didn't believe she had it in her? Making friends with Roarke, Linnea and Britta had been lovely but she had done her best to remain above the fantasy that she believed Britta had never really unravelled herself from.

Now – she was all alone.

The boy with the smiles, dead. The girl with the perceptive look yet the ability to still laugh, dead. The confident personality of these Games, dead. It was just her.

 _Not just me,_ Neviya reminded herself. There was still Destan. Still Albie. And still five others. The last thing Neviya would allow herself to do was to become too confident. She'd seen what confidence could do to someone, not just in these particular Games, but in past watches as she'd recapped what to do and what not to do through her training.

When she thought of Destan, sat against the cold Cornucopia's shell, rage grew fiery hot throughout Neviya. Her fists seemed to clench as if an automatic reaction to the horrific anger she felt. She'd let the rain get in the way and her own emotions at what she'd done to Britta, at what she'd seen happen to Roarke, cloud her from taking him down there and then.

She should not be in the final seven, she should be in the final six, or even the final five if she hadn't have just stared at Roarke's body instead of running after Albie. It was not the right mindset she was supposed to have, but then again, who decided what mindset she was supposed to have? She had never been a mindless, robotic dullard. That had been the entire philosophy Neviya had prided herself on her entire life.

Neviya closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and thought hard to let the anger ease away. As she unclenched her fists, she did her best to supress it. Rather than let those emotions become so overwhelming that she lost sense of why she was here in the first place, she would let them linger on the peripheral as a driving force. Rather than allow vengeance against Destan to be her motivation, she would think of the finishing line, the victory she wanted and push towards that.

 _I won't go after Destan,_ Neviya thought, refusing to become hell-bent on revenge. It was another thing she'd seen many times – another path so many tributes had taken that had never ended well. _But if I find him… he'll die._ That she was sure of. For Britta but also for herself. And perhaps, for the first time out of these entire Games, it would be the only death she'd take satisfaction from enacting.

As she looked around the Cornucopia area, at the jet-black grass with the light breeze whipping each blade side to side, Neviya finally stood up and pulled on the backpack strap round her shoulder. _Is this some monumental moment?_ She looked around her, imagining cameras zooming in, as Neviya walked over to the patch of ground where Britta had died.

There was the axe, dashed with blood. Next to it, Britta's own sword, tipped with red from Britta's own kill way back in the beginning. She looked at the axe and was only reminded of what Destan had forced her to do. If she was going to keep her emotions in check, she knew that she could not pick it up.

It was the sword that Neviya grabbed, putting it into a scabbard that was round her waist. If she could win with Britta's weapon, then it was symbolic in a way of the girl that in her last words had told her to win for her. She would. And she would leave this Arena with a huge smile, not allowing herself to crumble and fall to pieces, because for the girls she'd called friends, for the boy from home that was dead too, allowing herself to fall apart would be a horrific way of commemorating their loss.

She stopped where Roarke had died and collected as many arrows as she could, putting them into her backpack as blades she could use if she ever had to. Another token of a friend gone.

Neviya took a moment as she walked to the treeline to look over her shoulder once more. Final eight and she was now leaving the Cornucopia area. A lot had gone on within this space – here she had lost every connection she'd made over the course of the Capitol and these Games.

But it was time for the next chapter in this story. She couldn't stay here any longer.

Neviya weaved her way through the trees, knowing exactly where she was now heading, and stopped at the corpse of the hideous rat-lady. She stared at it, rotting in the mud, and moved to where Linnea's body had once been.

There, her spear was still nestled in the grass, and Neviya made the exact same choice as earlier. With Britta's sword by her hip, Roarke's arrows in her backpack and Linnea's spear in hand, she set forwards into the rest of the Arena.

Through the memory of the friends she had made and lost, Neviya would survive.

Sword, arrows and spear. With Neviya channelling each of them through her.

It was the path she was now set on. The path that would see her to victory.

* * *

"Can you believe we're the last District still alive?"

It was a morbid thought, but as Celestin looked at Maisley and the two exchanged a smile, Celestin couldn't believe it. Who would have thought two rich, snobby brats who hadn't worked a day in their lives, one of them the prissy daughter of the Mayor and the other a lazy fool, would still be alive? It astounded Celestin to think that he was in the final eight but it also frightened him.

He could no longer just expect to be allowed to go under the radar. His ankle, though still occasionally painful, had healed up thanks to his sponsor gift. He now had Maisley with him. This was where he had to take a shot at actually excelling in this Arena. Whatever that actually meant. Between Maisley and Carys, he had no idea what their next move would be. And he did not trust Carys – not one bit. The cut on Maisley's arm made that all the more palpable.

"Who's left exactly?" Celestin asked Maisley. He'd tried to pay attention to the faces in the sky but they'd all started blending into one in the end. Seeing Bryce had been shocking. He hoped Sinta was dealing with that okay. As much as he felt that they were now separated and on different paths, he still cared for his past alliance.

Maisley lifted a finger as she counted off the tributes. "You've got Neviya and Destan – the last two Careers. Uh – us two. Go team. Carys of course. Sinta and Sheridan. And then I think it's Albie? From Three?" She looked at Celestin, lifting an eyebrow. "That's eight, right?"

Celestin, though asking the question, hadn't really listened. Though one eye continued to look at Maisley pleasantly, happy to be back with her, the other continued to stare at Carys from the opposite corner of the hut, sat hunched up with her chin resting on her knees as she stared at anyone but the two from Six.

Celestin was not about to give everything up for Maisley's own survival, but he was also not about to let anything bad happen to her just yet. Through the bubble-wrapped world they'd come from, both had found each other in some weird sense of unity that actually now made Celestin feel like he had a purpose moving forwards. But he'd moved from one tension-laced alliance with Sinta going off the rails, to Carys having attacked Maisley because of some weird drug-infused apple and he couldn't shake the feeling that whenever he wasn't looking, Carys' eyes would flit up and land on him.

He hummed in agreement to Maisley's question but felt his entire body on edge at this moment. Maybe it was Carys, but being here in this Arena had heightened his senses to a million times the amount they'd ever been before. And going by where Celestin had come from, his bed being his natural habitat, that didn't take much.

Maisley, as she continued to talk quietly with Celestin, couldn't help but notice how his eyes would hover over Carys in the corner. She was not proud of what she was doing – not in the slightest. Shooting the arrow to attract the attention of Castor and Ponche, lying about the possibility of sponsors when they'd had nothing really, basically doing everything she could to create a team of meat shields. It had all been for her own self-preservation. And she knew, as much as she liked Celestin, she was just using him too. Carys had become less reliable, if that were possible, and at the peak of her anxiety over where she stood, here he had come to offer more grounding. A solid foundation.

From their position in the treetops, Maisley felt more secure than ever. She knew, when she did decide to strike against Carys soon, that Celestin was bound to join with her. But she wasn't about to vocalise her thoughts. So far, the conversation between Maisley and Celestin was boring – dull remarks about what they'd got up to, reminiscing about Six, and thinking about the other tributes. If she dropped her voice to discuss getting rid of Carys, then who knows what would happen.

Maisley knew she had to strike when Carys' back was turned. She was the strongest out of the three of them. Without Celestin, she had no chance.

"May I have some water?"

At the sound of Carys' gentle voice, Celestin and Maisley glanced over. Carys wore a smile but she wasn't a fool. She had no place in this alliance at all. From the girl back in Ten that had punched dummies and hated the world, to the girl that had joined an alliance of lighter personalities and had begun to feel like she could change for the better. Then she'd killed Spelt for another girl that had blatantly lied and she was once again shown why she had been so callous towards the world in the first place. Because it was a world of liars and cheats.

So Carys would just have to be the biggest liar and biggest cheat of them all. If everyone was going to continue using Carys for what she could provide, then fuck them all. She was done playing it the way she thought people expected of her. So, as she smiled sweetly over at the pair from Six, she knew right there and then that as soon as she got some water and a little bit of Celestin's food, she was gone.

Though she could not bring herself to hurt either of them, she was done. Maybe their alliance had died the second she had killed Spelt. Maybe this was just the way it was always going to be.

Without Castor's light, there was no-one left to be the beacon.

Celestin looked over at Maisley, unsure what to say. But when Maisley just grinned back and nodded, he unzipped his backpack and passed Carys the bottle of water.

"Sure," he said, voice not unkind, but not warm either. "You look tired."

"Can't say I've had much sleep the past few days," Carys said, honestly.

He grinned. "I can relate. I miss my bed."

"Me too," Maisley laughed, keeping one eye on Carys and she took a swig of water and gulped it down. "I guess I sometimes took it for granted. Having such a large bed. Where did you sleep Carys?"

It was a question followed by a smile, but Carys' mood curdled even more as she looked at the horribly sweet smile on Maisley's face. Rather than give into the anger coursing through her system, though, she just shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile back. "It wasn't anything special. But my house was warm enough. My younger brother Hale—" she paused at his name, a genuine pang of sadness in her chest, replacing the violent anger, "—when he was younger we would sometimes share a bed if he had a nightmare. Or if I did. Actually, it was usually me that—"

Carys stopped, refusing to give away too much, not after everything that had happened with the apples. Being forced to relive past trauma had done something to Carys and she did not like it. When she looked at Celestin, she saw dirty blonde hair, the same colour of the boy that had wrapped his hands round her throat. She'd been able to forget about those little details over the years. But this Arena had forced them back to the forefront of her mind.

It was why she had to escape. Quickly.

As time continued to pass the group by, and Maisley and Celestin seemed to relax in to each other's company again, ignoring Carys for the time being, she looked into her backpack. She'd made her mind up to go. She turned around as Maisley's eyes seemed to close, drifting away, and she flicked through some of the last remnants of her supplies. There were little bits she couldn't see the use of but it was her knife that she was mostly focused in. It was still coated with Spelt's blood. Dried at the end, flaking off.

It reminded her she could do this. She thought of all the faces that had once been so lively, so different from each other, all simply _gone._ Carys rifled through her backpack, cementing the idea in her head, the path she would take, the destination in mind to get away.

Carys didn't know but Maisley's eyes had opened. They'd never really closed. It was Celestin that seemed to finally be drifting off, lack of sleep finally getting to him, as she watched Carys' hands fidget around inside her backpack. _Oh no,_ Maisley thought. She hadn't been ready to get rid of her ally just yet, but she couldn't just let her… walk away.

It had hardly been any time since their conversation yet she knew it had been poisoned with the bond between both girls that had shattered to pieces. Neither knew that over the past few days, the other had considered killing them. Carys pushing Maisley from the tower. Maisley knifing Carys in the back across the bridge.

She blamed the Hunger Games, blamed her desire to live, but if she let Carys go, she knew she'd come back to haunt her in the end. In her mind, with Celestin just by her side, Maisley believed this was now the time. If she thought about it too much, she'd lose her chance.

 _Now or never… now or never…_

Maisley stood up as quietly as she could as the noise of Carys' zip startled her. The knife gripped clumsily in her hands. One quick strike. Through the back. If it didn't kill her straight away, it'd be enough to incapacitate her. That was all Maisley needed. She couldn't win in one on one fights. Backstabbing had to be the way to go. In every literal sense of the word.

She wanted to cry because this was not what she wanted to do – not really. She liked Carys, deep down. She really did. But as she took the final step, she resolved herself to her actions and brought the knife swiftly down.

Only Carys was quicker.

"What the—" Carys dodged out the way, spinning around, her shout waking Celestin up from his sleep. The scene froze in place.

Carys wasn't sure if Maisley severely overestimated her ability, or underestimated Carys, but Carys wasn't a deaf, blind fool. When trust became impossible in an alliance, she did not turn her back expecting nothing to happen.

In that moment, Carys looked between Maisley and the knife in her hand, the startled expression on her face, and the groggy eyes of Celestin as he took in what had just occured. His eyes then widened and he stood up. With the two from Six looking at her, both with a knife, Carys turned tail and ran from the hut.

The wind whipped her cheeks, branches from higher up in the trees slashed at her as she made her way across a bridge, then into the next hut, through the maze of the treetop village. Maisley gave chase before Celestin could tell her otherwise.

Maisley felt panic in her heart, fear flaring through every fibre of her being. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Maisley knew she'd been foolish. And she knew she still was being foolish. But being in the final eight, so close to the end, with an ally now turned enemy who was stronger than both her and Celestin escaping, she couldn't see past the innate terror in her body at the idea of letting her get away.

 _Stop… stop…_ she wasn't sure if that was her mind telling her legs to freeze, or Celestin's voice as he chased after her, but Maisley ignored it. For once, she ignored the self-centred part of her body, the voice that had always told her to use her weaknesses to her advantage, and she continued to chase after Carys, knife in hand.

"Maisley!" Celestin shouted, running after her. His ankle seemed to suddenly remember that it had been twisted and that the ointment was only a numbing effect, not a way of healing it. He cursed blindly at the pain that shot up his leg but he didn't stop. Like Maisley, part of his mind willed him to give up the chase, knowing that Carys and Maisley were not worth risking his own neck.

But he couldn't. All three were caught up in the heat of the moment. Emotions trumped survival instinct.

Carys passed through another hut, grabbed onto a rope and swung across the gap, before reaching another bridge. She picked up the knife in her hand and realised, if she didn't cause some kind of diversion, they would be running around in circles until the inevitable clash happened. Though she knew she was stronger than the little liar she'd allied herself with, that did not change the fact Carys knew anything could happen in this Arena.

Strength did not automatically guarantee an upper-hand in the Games. She would not blindly throw herself into action anymore. If she was going to win, everything she'd learnt about herself, would have to be applied to help her make it to the end.

She reached the end of the bridge and with her knife, cut at the first rope. As it started to give way, the planks wiggled in their spot, though there was still enough connection to the hut to keep it upright. Maisley did not seem to notice and ran halfway across the bridge before Carys stepped out from the shadows of the hut and met her eye.

Celestin joined Maisley on the bridge, closer to the opposite end, and stared between his District partner and Carys.

"Why?!" Carys shouted, even though she knew the answer.

Maisley gave up the pretence and felt everything she'd worked hard on fall to pieces there and then. Maybe the reason she'd jumped the gun a bit, tried to take out Carys without properly thinking it through when moments ago she was considering the plan properly, was because she did not have any of the control she truly always believed she did have.

Maisley felt tears in her eyes but blinked them away. "I don't want to die," she said.

"Not good enough."

Carys took out her knife, and before Maisley could do anything, she cut the final rope.

"MAISLEY!"

Celestin jumped backwards and caught the edge of the hut as the bridge fell, ropes snapped and the planks struck the tree branches all the way down to the forest floor. Gravity took Maisley down with it and a high-pitched scream rang through the canopy as Carys looked across the empty gap between her hut, and the one that Celestin stood at.

He gawped at her, then peered over the gap, as Carys ran towards the nearest ladder she could find. She realised as she made it to the forest floor, there had been no cannon. It would have been easier if there had been. After everything they'd been through, she did not dislike Maisley. She did not hate her. And she still saw a strong, younger person in those eyes that reminded her of Hale.

Maisley was crawling in the mud, crying into the dirt as her leg splayed out at an awkward angle, bone jutting through skin. She sobbed and continued to drag her body forwards, looking over her shoulder at Carys advancing, and she shook her head fearfully, side to side, pain shooting through every ounce of her being.

It was fiery hot. Nothing she'd ever experienced before. And in that moment, Maisley was just a small, fourteen-year-old girl, who wanted to go home to her family and tell stories to her friends again.

"P-Please – Carys – please –"

Carys bent down to look at Maisley and felt her own tears balancing delicately on her eyelashes. She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Maisley. I'm really sorry."

Before Maisley could say anything else, Carys drew her knife across her throat and the little girl from Six fell still, blood pooling around the wound in her neck.

 _BOOM!_

As if timed perfectly, Celestin ran towards the two of them and froze, knife now falling to his hip as he just stared at Maisley's dead body.

His mind whirred. He thought about the girl from the train that had asked questions about why no one from Six had ever really gone home, a girl that had spurred him towards joining Sinta, a girl that he had seen take every strength she had growing up in a household like the one she had and twisting it to her advantage.

She might have been the youngest, but she had been a force to be reckoned with. And now she was dead.

"You killed her," Celestin said.

Carys wanted to cry but knew she could not. Not until this was over with.

"I'll give you two options. Try and fight me – maybe win, maybe lose. Or run," Carys lowered her gaze. "Please run."

Celestin looked at his District partner once more, her fragile face twisted in the agony she'd felt in her final moments, and blinked back his own tears.

When Carys looked up, Celestin was gone.

She was all alone.

* * *

All his life, Destan had known he would never live up to his mother's expectations.

He'd chosen which image to wear in front of which people to try and be someone special, but all that had left Destan with was an innate sense of worthlessness. As a Career, he'd tried to find that control through other means, but even then he'd never truly believed he was physically strong enough in comparison to the other more brutal, vigorous trainees.

Yet here he was, final eight, and Destan should have felt content knowing he was in the end game. But he wasn't. Destan had stumbled through the forest, streaks down his face from the angry tears that had fallen, and he continued to slash away at any branch that was annoying enough to get in his way, tripping over rocks and awkwardly dancing over roots that jutted from the ground.

Inside of him, all he felt was pure, unfiltered rage. At his mother. At District Four. At Panem. At the Capitol. At Chancellor, Linnea and Britta. At Roarke. At Neviya. At himself.

Deep down, Destan wanted to turn himself around and head straight back for the Cornucopia and get Neviya. The loss of control, the fact that he knew how fucking stupid he had been not seeing through Roarke's deception, or Nikos' blatant desire to run, it angered him so much. But he knew he wasn't angry at Neviya, not really. No – he was angry at himself.

Angry at every single choice he had made since the very beginning of these Games. They all came down to the pure and honest fact that he was not cut out for this. Not in the absolute slightest. He felt a disgrace to everything he'd tried to pretend to be and knew, if he'd just made some different choices back home, he could have been living a very different life to the one he'd thought was the only path for him.

The angry tears that fell from his eyes were not anger at wanting to go and kill Neviya, but the anger at the embarrassment he felt. But it was easier to channel that anger into wanting to wipe the smirk from the face of those that had made him feel this way about himself. In a one on one fight with the girl from Two, he knew he would not win. So, he didn't turn around to face her.

He was scared to.

Albie was somewhere in these trees and he knew she couldn't be too far. He continued to traipse through the dense forest, weaving this way and that around trees and azalea bushes, over roots that seemed targeted to tangling his feet up, and he continued to shake with every emotion that had come to the forefront on his journey through the forest.

If his next target was going to be Albie, he had to be smart, because he knew that she was. He had thought he could use her anger towards Roarke after they'd gotten rid of the threat of Neviya and Britta. Clearly, the second Nikos had ran and Roarke had shot him down, everything he'd thought was going to work had fallen to pieces in seconds.

He just wanted this over with. He could do some soul-searching back home. He could live the life he could have lived when this was all done and neatly wrapped together with his victory. Whatever he may have felt previously about killing, that had fallen to pieces the moment he'd thrown the knife in a blind rage into Castor's skull.

Now – Destan just wanted to find tributes, kill them, smother down all he was feeling, and win.

If he thought about it that way, he could delude himself into thinking it was easy. If he could feign some sort of confidence, then everything he hated about himself could settle just on the edge, but not enough to overwhelm him.

But he couldn't see anything. Or hear anyone. It was just these fucking endless trees and he was growing more and more frustrated. Destan's eyes looked up to the sky, where those cameras were hovering around, and he knew it was worth maybe another shot. One more little push.

"Can a guy get some help?" Destan pleaded, hoping the Gamemakers were listening like they had the last time. "Please?"

He waited. And waited some more. And then some more.

Nothing.

Not a wisp of ghostly blue. Not a single floating gaseous, whimsical being to show him the way. Either the Gamemakers had completely lost faith in his endeavours, or they were finding it funny to watch him beg them, eyes probably two inches away from a camera, staring at the sky, hoping and praying for guidance.

He kicked a tree root in frustration and howled with pain again. This must have been the third time he'd done so.

As he closed his eyes to try and calm himself down, that was when he heard it.

A snap of a tree branch. A rustle of leaves.

Maybe the Gamemakers hadn't sent a path for him to follow because he was closer than he thought.

Maybe they hadn't lost faith in him after all.

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

 _Ding. Ding._

Albie glanced up at the sky as she caught sight of the parachute floating gently towards her. It brushed against the branches of the tree she was stood under and softly she let it fall into her hands as she stared at the note written and hooked to the canister.

 _You've caught their attention. Use this. Keep moving – S._

She said a silent thank-you to Shiloh, her mentor, and let the paper fall to the ground. As the lid came off the canister and a glass jar fell into her hands, Albie knew immediately what it was for and couldn't contain her silly excitement.

If the sponsors were giving her a gift this late in the game – something that was bound to be expensive – it could only mean she'd caught the attention of everyone out there. A part of Albie knew that everything she'd been through and done had not been for anyone but herself and those that she had lost along the way. Nikos was just the final nail in the coffin of the Albie she'd once been.

All her life she'd been told to bottle things up. If – no, when – she made it home, she'd gladly tell her mother where to stick her ideas of what made the perfect Mathison daughter. And then she'd never see her again.

She thought back to the chaos of yesterday. Nikos being shot down immediately – something she wished she'd been able to predict. And then Roarke, dead to her knife, another Career fallen. She hadn't taken a risk then of trying to get Neviya or Destan. Albie, for everything she was feeling, still prided herself on her mind. A continuous state of bringing together the two parts of who she now was as a tribute in these Games.

The jar made her think of Shual, back in the hut, and she knew that this was a gift to get her moving those plans forward. As if on cue, the fireflies gently floated back into view and Albie smiled at their peaceful appearance. They were bright yellow, golden in hue, as they seemed to move straight towards her. Albie thought of the two Careers still out there – Neviya and Destan – but also of the other remaining tributes. She had nothing against any of them, but just by being alive, they were in her way of living.

She would step over everyone now, this close to the finish line, if it meant making it home to Three and living the rest of her life trying to accept who she had now become. She would do anything.

Albie gently unscrewed the lid from the jar and moved towards the nearest golden cloud of fireflies. None of them seemed to fly away as she scooped the jar through the air, several fireflies falling into the glass and she rolled the lid back up and tightened it so they couldn't escape.

Shual, as much as he'd wanted to survive by sticking to the shadows, had known this was the best way forwards. She would do this for him, knowing he couldn't be here. For Armina, lost too soon. The second Albie looked down at the fireflies, peacefully roaming around their new glass home, their yellow bodies turned to red and she saw little tendrils of fire sweep around the confines of the jar.

 _Perfect,_ Albie thought.

She thought of Shiloh and again thanked her and whoever had blessed her with this jar. Then her mind went back to the note – _keep moving_ – and she could almost feel the eyes on her. Albie tried to remain as calm as she could and quickly hurried forwards. She had no idea who it was but in that moment, she knew she was being followed, though they were keeping their distance, not yet ready to strike.

With the red fireflies, Albie knew exactly where she was now headed and how far she was willing to take this to make sure she could survive.

It was the end of the day. The Capitol seal could be seen through the canopy as the girls from Five and Six looked back down on the surviving tributes, and then sunlight became starlight.

In the night-time glow, the red fireflies seemed to burn even brighter.

Albie smiled, ears perked up to every sound, eyes taking in her surroundings, and she set off towards her destination, ready to set the world ablaze.

She was nearing the end.

Six to go.

* * *

 **8th:** Maisley Corvac, District Six Female.

* * *

 **Okay typing a chapter when you slice your finger open on a ketchup bottle and have it all plastered up is bloody difficult. The things I go through for fanfiction ;/**

 **Three more Games chapters left – almost there!**

 **Question time:**

 _ **If you could swap two tributes – one dead for one alive – who would you choose and why?**_

 **Thanks!**


	36. Inferno

**Chapter Thirty-Six.**

* * *

In the glow of the fire, Sheridan warmed her hands and tried to distance herself – body and mind.

Behind where she sat on the rug in front of the crackling flames, Sinta was busy talking, leaning back on the couch settled in the small cottage they'd stumbled across, absent-mindedly rifling through her backpack to check what they both had. On the table in front, Sinta's knife was stained with red, sat there almost staring at her.

She couldn't stop glancing back over, even as she kept trying to distract herself by chatting with Sheridan and perusing through what she had left to get her through the rest of the Games. Not only was she now a killer of someone who had made it their life's mission to murder other innocent children, but she herself had now killed someone who had no reason being in the Games in the first place.

For everything Sheridan, Bryce and Celestin had tried telling her, she couldn't get rid of that thought from her head. She did not like who she had become – but it was also a part of her. Ever since she'd stabbed Chancellor in the chest and felt the life leave his blackened soul, something had snapped in her mind. As if something about the first casualty of these Games – the sicko from One – had forced its way into her.

She was used to it, now.

Sheridan wasn't. Minute by minute, she was losing her grasp over whatever fractious alliance she still had.

"—I do wonder what my friends are doing. I can't tell if it's morning anymore. Everything is dark here, it's been so confusing—"

Sheridan heard the lighter tone of the girl from Seven that she'd seen flounce around the Training Hall, linked arm in arm with Bryce, filling the atmosphere with her radiance. But underneath those words there was a coldness. In her eyes, an emptiness that Sheridan could so easily recognise. Sheridan had killed too and Iva's death would be on her conscience for the rest of her life – whether that was about to be cut short soon, or for the many, many years she still had left. But it wasn't killing that had been the worst part of this for Sheridan.

It had been her goal of trying to become a better person, by seeing something in Sinta that she could latch onto, and watching the glimpse of who she could have become fall into ash. It wasn't just Saraya that was Sheridan's driving force to make it home, or the will she had to survive, or the fear of the unknown shrouded around death; it was Sheridan's desire to make something of her life if she made it out of this Arena.

With that thought in her mind, the alternative was impossibly terrifying.

Sheridan turned from the fire and rubbed her hands together, embracing the warmth. She looked at Sinta whose eyes were buried deep in her backpack still, not registering Sheridan as she stood up and made her way over to an armchair on the opposite side of the room from Sinta.

She couldn't be around her any longer. If anything, Sinta now unnerved Sheridan. She hated this turn of events.

"I don't know much about you, Sheridan. Not really," Sinta said, though still not looking over at Sheridan. "Have you got many people waiting for you if you were to win?"

Sheridan thought of Saraya and shook her head. Though Saraya was a good source of motivation, she was also a face that she could easily get lost in. Sheridan did not cry. It just wasn't her. But thinking about not making it home – it was that sort of thinking that shook her resolve.

"I just want to make it home for me," Sheridan said. "That has to be my priority."

"It's a good priority," Sinta said.

Finally, her eyes settled on Sheridan and she smiled. It was a twisted sort of smile. Not light like the smiles from the Capitol, but forced, because Sinta knew deep down she was trying her best to feel nothing over Sheridan. It had ripped her to shreds knowing Teak, Altia and especially Bryce were gone. Maybe she wasn't showing it in the way that people would have expected her to, but deep down she knew her heart had shrivelled up, her determination was quaking, and everything about the old Sinta was ripping apart.

She could still hear the terrified, gruesome and blood-curdling screams of Bryce being torn apart in that cave. Though Sinta still smiled at Sheridan, it was the sound of those screams that made her eyes seem empty. Because feeling empty was better than feeling everything else.

It was those eyes that made Sheridan's mind start to settle on one ultimate thing. A final decision she had to make. A decision she knew, ever since Chancellor's death and she'd seen what had become of Sinta, had slowly been working its way into her mind and cementing itself there.

When she thought about what she was considering and saw Sinta just smile at her, she couldn't help but think of the girl that had now been lost to the Games. A girl that Sheridan had been committed to fixing again – to bring back some of the light that had been stolen.

But it was now too late for that. Sinta was gone.

And Sheridan had to live.

With a new day now beginning, Sinta was glad that they had found this quaint little cottage. Though the door seemed to be ripped apart in certain places and the glass of the window was in shards by the entranceway, it was a humble sort of place that she could see herself resting up in. She was bruised up. Sheridan's shoulder had been hit quite badly by Henley and no matter how hard she tried to act like it wasn't bothering her, every time Sheridan moved Sinta could see her face crumple up with pain.

They were battered and bruised. Sinta couldn't help but feel her eyes slowly start to flutter shut, even though they'd just slept. Her entire body ached and throbbed with pain and exhaustion.

Though she drifted on the edge of sleep, her mind was still focused on the Games.

She had to stay cautious. Aware. But then where they had been emptiness, pictures of Bryce's gentle smile floated into the corners of her conscious mind and Sinta couldn't help but be swept away by them.

Sheridan watched Sinta relax and just stared at her, lying on the sofa, a blissful sort of smile on her face. The sort of smile that Sheridan had missed seeing.

Sheridan's eyes hovered over their new shelter and seeing the remnants of what must have been a pretty horrible attack, the blood on the carpet right by where Sinta now slept, Sheridan did not want to stay here. She couldn't let herself become idle and fall back into the shadows. This close to the end, as much as her body screamed against any sort of exertion, she was growing impatient and needed to get to the end.

But to get to the end, there was something near to her that was in the way.

And so, the thought came back into her mind, but this time with blazing ferocity, and Sheridan couldn't help but feel as if it were time. When Sheridan stood up, Saraya's gentle and contagious laugh shook through her head and Sheridan froze where she was, feeling her blood run cold, but she had to ignore it even as she walked closer to Sinta.

She had spent the entire time in the Capitol trying to not be pulled in by the sheer magnetism that this girl had radiated. The positivity of a person that Sheridan had always wanted to be, yet had found it so difficult to become. In the blink of an eye, that had been snatched by forces that Sheridan knew were not Sinta's fault.

She had become a victim of these Games even without her cannon in the sky. And now, for Sheridan to get home, this close to the end, she knew she had no choice.

She took another tentative step, and then another, finding some sort of determination in her gut that forced her forwards. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience as her hand found Sinta's blood-tipped knife. _I'm so sorry,_ Sheridan thought, tears in the corners of her eyes.

When she looked at Sinta, it was a picture of the girl that had once been. A memory. But as Sheridan committed herself to what she had to do, those eyes snapped open, and the memory was wiped clean, replaced by this new, shattered version of the girl with the smiles.

A girl that may not have known boundaries, but had a golden heart nonetheless.

Sheridan was startled but did not let her grip on the knife slacken.

"Oh—" Sinta said, quietly, as if still caught up in the whimsy of Bryce's tender face, hovering on the peripheral. "—Sheridan?"

Sheridan just shook her head, tears falling, but the knife still pointed above Sinta.

When Sinta looked at the knife, she saw Teak, Altia and Bryce. She saw her friends from home sat on the wall, the smiles of her parents, the love she felt in District Seven warm and toasty in the air. And that in itself was peaceful, because she hadn't felt that since she'd killed Chancellor.

It was odd, Sinta realised. She had committed herself to winning because she was tired of all the horrible emotions she was feeling, but seeing Sheridan's knife above her had brought back the sunlight of a life she had once lived.

Sinta smiled and nodded at Sheridan. "Say hello to Bryce's family for me, will you?" And she closed her eyes, lips still perked up in a grin. "And the rest. Teak, Altia and Celestin. When you win Sheridan, remember who I was. Not who I am."

 _Do it._ With wavering resolve, Sheridan stabbed Sinta clean through the chest, unbeknownst to her, but in the exact same place where Henley had killed Damon, here on the couch. Sinta went still as her cannon shook the cottage's foundations and she fell backwards, onto the carpet, pulling the knife closer to her as if for rocky comfort.

It hadn't been a new thought, killing Sinta. It had been there since the beginning of the Games – since she'd realised Sinta was initially holding them back, but then had become something she couldn't even recognise. And underneath it all, Sheridan had become scared of her.

She took one final look at the peaceful deathly glow radiating from Sinta's face, gathered up the supplies, and left the cottage.

In death, Sinta had found peace.

In life, Sheridan would find hers.

* * *

Destan followed Albie from a distance, doing his best not to alert her.

Whether or not she was aware of his presence, he wasn't sure, but he was doing his absolute best to control his temper and observe her from afar. So far, a lot of what he'd accomplished, or failed to accomplish, had happened because he'd jumped into things without thinking. Mostly driven by an innate sense of fear and lack of self-worth, Destan had grown impatient.

And he still was. But he didn't want to die, and Albie was up to something. So, he walked, watched and continued to think. He'd always prided himself on actually being intelligent – and he knew, from an outsider perspective, perhaps that hadn't been seen so far. Time to put what he valued into good use.

Albie, from not too far ahead, continued to weave through the trees, the jar rattling around in her backpack. Destan was doing his best to be as quiet as he could but in the still and silent air of the moonlit forest, it was impossible for him to remain totally inconspicuous. It came with the territory – Albie's entire being was lingering on the edge of waiting for an attack. Being so close to the end – another cannon in the sky not too long ago – she was now part of the final quarter of these tributes.

 _So close… come on Albie, almost there!_ Part of Albie actually smiled and allowed herself momentary joy at the fact she had made it so far. Armina and Shual would be proud of her, she was sure. No doubt they'd rather be in her position, but she could feel them as reassuring presences, and knew especially Armina would not take being one of the finishing tributes for granted. She wouldn't enjoy it, per se, but she wouldn't dwell too much on all the horrific emotions.

Albie had come to embrace them all. They were a part of her. The smile on her face was a welcomed addition to what she felt and carried with her on her journey through the trees.

Both tributes were completely exhausted – next to no sleep on their side, each painfully aware that the other could be up to anything. Albie didn't allow herself to forget that Destan was a Career and trained for this, but she felt almost cocky in her way through the trees because two of the Career faces in the sky had been because of her.

Destan knew that too. As much as he wanted to be able to say he had this in the bag, he had never really believed in himself enough to ever think so. Now that he didn't have the distraction of louder personalities and the masks to wear around them, he was stripped back to the bare bones of who Destan was. It was an ugly look, but a look he was ready to take if it meant being able to take down a girl that had killed both Linnea and Roarke.

The two had somehow become intertwined now – Albie with her plan to take him down and whoever else got caught in the crossfire, and Destan on his way to ensure Albie died and another tribute fell. He didn't relish what he'd done to Castor, but it was a necessary evil. He needed to win. He needed to survive.

Albie finally saw it, peeking through the trees, and she couldn't fight back the pride she felt in herself for making it back. The red fireflies seemed to buzz around even more in the jar, tucked away in her backpack, rattling it around at the treetop village high above as Albie cleared the way through the forest.

She stepped over a final root and took a deep breath, hands balled into fists by her side. This was a bit different to what she'd done so far. Linnea had been a sneaky kill. Roarke's an emotionally driven one in the face of Nikos' corpse, the final person she had any remote connection with.

Facing Destan was the pinnacle of everything she and Shual had tried to piece together. It was here he had died, the last of Albie's allies, and where she would kill another tribute in these Games. Though she had already taken down Roarke, it did not mean she was finished. She wouldn't be until she had made it out alive and could hug Armina's parents – telling them how much she had come to adore their daughter. Shual had a sister, too. She had to know how proud she should feel towards her elder brother.

But first – Destan.

 _Oh god, she's stopped._

He cleared the final tree, gulped down the fearful lump in his throat, and stood opposite where Albie was. At his arrival, the corners of her lips twitched upwards into a smirk, and before Destan could say anything or allow himself to feel the anger that was always so paramount on the edge of his nerves, she turned around and bolted up the nearest ladder.

Destan didn't think about it. He'd done his waiting, bided his time and not made his attempt to kill her in the trees. But he couldn't let her disappear in the canopy of the forest. This was his chance to overcome another obstacle.

He ran straight for the ladder and waited a moment. Albie had already made it to the nearest rope bridge so he wasn't about to stumble into her patiently waiting for him at the edge of the hut. Spear in hand, he clumsily made his way into a standing position and ran through the hut and stood the opposite end of the bridge, staring at Albie.

The girl from Three just stared at him back. A moment ago, she'd felt invulnerable. Now, she felt nervous. Everything had really been building up to this. Even with Roarke dead, it felt like her story hadn't finished. Not yet. Not until she made it out of this Arena alive in a tidal wave of fire.

"You seem like you know this place well?" Destan called, breaking the silence.

Albie nodded and pointed to somewhere halfway between them on the bridge. "That's where Roarke killed Shual. Dunno why – I was the one threatening to kill him. But he shot down Shual. It goes to show what people like him – like you – are built to accomplish."

Destan rolled his eyes. "Spare me your anti-Career rhetoric. We're monsters, whatever." He could feel himself bristling at her hatred. It felt misguided. Silly for a girl that seemed to always hold herself with such poise and intellect. At least from what he'd observed from afar in the early days of the Capitol. "Tell me again – what did you do to Linnea and Roarke?"

Albie felt her veins fill with ice and shook her head. "That's different."

"Maybe so," Destan said, gritting his teeth together. The humour of this interaction might have made him laugh a few days ago – now he just felt impatient to get this over with. He was done playing these games. "But you're still a killer. Just like me."

When he took a step forwards, Albie pulled out from her backpack a glass jar, filled with little fireflies that had become pinpricks of red light. Destan arched an eyebrow, confused. He wanted to make some remark but he bit his tongue and looked again at Albie's face, rageful but also focused, confident in the jar she held.

Which told Destan all he needed to know. Whatever it was – it was not good.

The second she went to unscrew the lid, Destan ran towards her. He almost threw his spear but if he let that go and missed, he'd be out of a weapon, so he stopped himself and continued running towards Albie.

Panic flared in her system at his quick approach and looking once at the fireflies, she took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to Armina and Shual hopefully watching over her from above, and threw the jar against the nearest tree.

Destan stopped where he was on the bridge and in slow motion, saw the jar splinter against the trunk, glass shards spiralling everywhere, and the cloud of red fireflies engulf everything in pure, rageful fire.

He yelped with surprise and watched as the blaze spread wisps of burning red, yellow and orange up the first tree. As the fireflies continued to whizz around, everything they brushed against became swallowed up in the vengeful wrath of Albie's blaze as she ran across the bridge and disappeared into the next hut.

Destan found his feet and quickly gave chase. If he lost her, then he knew he'd regret it. This was not a time to be scared, stupid Destan, but a Career that would take down his opponents. He would make it to the finish line no matter what.

As Albie ran, she couldn't help but feel the fire bright in her heart, willing her on as it seemed to overwhelm the entire area they were in. Trees became skyscrapers of fire. Smoke billowed up into the sky as the treetop village soon became caught up in the blazing hot spires. She could hear Destan behind her but knew exactly where she was headed.

There was a ladder not too far over the other side of a bridge. She could make it there, run away, and leave Destan to burn. Another Career, gone. Another tribute, gone. And Albie, one step closer to—

 _Where the fuck is the bridge?_

Albie coughed, choking on thick billows of smoke that started to fill the area, the edge of the hut she was stood in now beginning to burn red-hot. There had been a bridge where she was now stood. She knew it. She was one-hundred percent adamant on that fact.

When she peered over the edge, she could see debris down below on the forest-floor, splintered and as a firefly landed on one broken beam from where the bridge had been, a pit of fire erupted below where Albie stood.

 _Fuck._ Where Albie had felt joy and concrete resolution in what she was achieving, she suddenly felt the fear of a normal girl, a girl that just wanted to go home and not die, fill her from her toes to her dizzying head. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere.

Her eyes caught a tree not too far from the hut she was in but before she could make any sort of attempt towards it, Destan entered the small building they were stood in, gazing around at the area with wide eyes, fear trembling through his body, but the spear still in his hand.

"You!" His eyes landed on Albie and he couldn't stop himself but shake with anger. "What the fuck have you done?!" He choked on his words and could barely see through the fire that was spreading. The way behind him soon became blocked with the inferno and all he could do was stare at Albie as she took out her knife, the knife that had killed two Careers, and shook it in front of Destan.

Without plans or schemes or allies or anything, it was just Albie facing off Destan.

One of them, a scared girl from Three who had found her emotions but found them in a frightening way.

The other, a Career. And the one thing Destan knew, even though he had always doubted himself, was that with everything stripped back, it was an easy fight.

Albie swiped over his spear but it was over in seconds. The point of Destan's weapon skewered her through the stomach and she went still, agony coursing through her veins, fire stabbing into ever shred of her being, and then bizarrely, she felt ice creep into every pore.

Destan pulled the spear out, watched Albie stumble, and as her tear-filled eyes looked over at him, she fell backwards, into the wall of fire that she herself had created, swallowing Albie whole.

 _BOOM!_

He didn't wait to allow himself a reaction.

The tree that Albie had been looking at moments before her death, now lingering on being completely engulfed in fire, was the closest thing Destan could see to an escape. He jumped for it, crying out with pain as he connected with the trunk and his skin tore apart as he slowed his fall to the forest floor, shimmying down the tree.

He landed on his back on the ground and cried out again, his head slumping back as his eyes seemed to spiral. Above him, something crashed down, barely missing his body. The entire world was vibrant hues of red, yellow and orange.

He found it almost peaceful.

 _I could … I could … drift … drift …_

A branch fell from the tree he'd just gracelessly used to help him down, crackling with fire as it landed on his leg. He yelped up, kicked it away and stumbled around the area, watching the entire treetop village erupt into fire and smoke. It began to fall apart as the red fireflies continued to dance through the sky, landing on trees and spreading the flames.

It was so thick with heat, so blurry to see through, that Destan could barely make out the face looking at him through the wall of fire blocking the two tributes.

His heart froze as he made out the ginger hair and the spear and sword she had in her hands.

Destan turned, feeling the heat on his back, and ran for it.

Though she could not get to him, the fire spreading too much, Neviya had found Destan.

She knew what she had to do.

* * *

Celestin sat underneath the tree and stared out into the wilderness beyond.

If there were any cameras watching him now, all they would see was a hollowed-out version of Celestin. Dirty, greasy blonde hair that had once been kept well with lavish shampoo and luxurious showers. Pale face with splatters of blood, whipped with tree branches that had left delicate cuts across his skin. His body was shaking as he hugged the jacket round his shoulders, forcing himself as close to the thick tree trunk as possible for protection.

This was not the Celestin Elan of Six, professor of the art of napping, man of little care for anything but his own ideas and perceptions of the world. This was the tribute version of Celestin, who had somehow now made it to the final five, so close to the end, yet could still not see the finish line.

Where he had felt an amazing sense of determination in his gut, with Maisley's face in the sky and fleeing like the coward he felt, unable to do anything but watch her plummet to the forest floor, he now felt total and uncontrollable anger. Not just at Carys, but at everything.

He had once been someone that had seen the world for what it was but simply not cared enough for any sort of emotion. He was now someone who still saw the world for what it was, but could only feel anger, red-hot like fire pokers in his skin. He did not want to regress into some shell-like version of who he was, not so close to the end, a besmirch on little Maisley Corvac's memory when she had fought so hard in her own way to survive, but he had little control over what he was feeling.

He did not want to die. The shadow of death was so unknown, so unseen, that it left him absolutely terrified. Maybe all along he'd cared more about existence than he'd ever cared to admit, but actually being put in an Arena where that could be snatched away at any second, it had left him feeling things he'd never even known he could feel.

 _I do not want to die._ Yet Celestin could not will himself to move further than dragging himself towards the pond, its placid waters still tranquil underneath the starlit sky. It was here that they'd first found safety after the chaos of the bloodbath, after Celestin had left Altia to die. It couldn't have been more than four days ago but it felt a lifetime. So much had already gone on. He'd seen not just himself but others he'd cared more to admit splinter apart into fragmented versions of themselves.

It did nothing to reinvigorate himself with a newfound respect for life. He did not care about the outside world. But he still innately cared about himself. Again, he repeated it in his mind – _I do not want to die_ – and stared into the depths of the pond.

He saw what the rest of the country must have seen and felt a small slither of embarrassment at what he looked like. And then he felt embarrassed for feeling embarrassed at something so trivial. Maybe little snippets of the rich life he'd lived had actually bled into his own image of himself without him knowing. He couldn't help it – no matter how he might have tried he was still a product of an upbringing that he'd truly believed would protect him from anything like this.

Celestin continued to look at the cuts in his face, the horrible bruising around his eyes, the slight ashen twinge to his hair from the fire, and realised with horror that his reflection was smiling.

And Celestin was not.

"The girl you all thought was crazy is now dead," the reflection spoke, whereas Celestin just watched, dismayed with his lip unmoving. "It's what you become – here, in this Arena. You fall apart. How far have you fallen, Celestin?"

He splashed the water, channelling his anger at the world into a slap across the pond and as the ripples settled, his reflection's smile remained unrivalled.

"Maisley is dead because of us," it spoke, harshly, cruelly. "We always thought the world was so useless, so uninteresting, but did we ever stop to think that maybe it was _us_ that was so useless, so uninteresting?"

Celestin shivered at the words that poured from this spiteful, horrific version of himself. He vaguely recalled Sinta shouting at the pond way back at the beginning but had dismissed it so casually. As much as he willed himself to not listen and to walk away, he could not move, he was fixed to the spot.

"Give up, Celestin. It's all we have ever been good for."

At those words, a bloodied hand rose from the water, fingernails cracked, skin peeling back as Celestin shouted and crawled backwards on his elbows. When he looked over his shoulder and then glanced back, it was gone, leaving nothing but the gentle, peaceful waters that he stared back in and watched his face reflect the horror in his own eyes.

 _I can't fall apart,_ Celestin thought, closing his eyes, feeling his body shaking, but standing up nonetheless and opening his eyes to glance around the enclosed settlement of trees. _For Maisley, but also for me._

In the distance, as he steeled himself for the final five, the fight ahead, he saw a cloud of fireflies drift into view and hover over the pond. He'd seen them as nothing but annoying right from the beginning, and if Carys was to be believed, they were not what they seemed.

But in this moment, their light provided some comfort to Celestin, some sense of an anchor that grounded his thoughts and made him think about what could be if he just fought a little longer and did not give up.

The thoughts wrapped around him, warm and encouraging.

Then the fireflies went out, hovering bodies of darkness, and Celestin's heart leapt into his throat.

 _Run._

* * *

 **7th:** Sinta Montero, District Seven Female.  
 **6th:** Albie Mathison, District Three Female.

* * *

 **Now that we have somehow made it through this horrific review scandal, I can post this chapter. It was stressing me out, ngl.**

 **Two more tributes down! Final five y'all! Can't believe they've all nearly gone. This is weird. I've connected with these tributes so much ugh.**

 **Let me know what you thought now that I can actually see it! Thanks for all the support!**


	37. Pitch Black

**Chapter Thirty-Seven.**

* * *

The world was hot and fiery, choked with smoke that billowed into thick, black clouds filling the starlit sky.

Neviya felt the flames lick her body, singeing the ends of her hair and parts of her clothing as she ducked under a falling branch. Her heart beat nervously in her chest, fearfully as chaos swallowed the forest. She could barely see ahead of her, but what she had seen had been enough, giving her purpose as she continued to weave through the fires that had erupted.

Red fireflies darted around, trailing little wisps of fire, but as soon as they brushed against something wooden it blew open into a torrent of red and yellow. Neviya cursed as a firefly landed on her shoulder and she swatted it away, burning the back of her fingers. She ignored the pain, felt her fingers clammy around Linnea's spear, with the sword in her hand now back in its scabbard. The arrows cluttered around in her backpack as she continued through the forest.

Neviya could see the end but did not delude herself that it would now be an easy path forward. If anything, despite seeing Destan and now following him, everything had been dialled up to a thousand. She knew she was now in the end game but could not let the possibility of actually surviving cloud her judgement. There were still four more tributes to die so she could get there. Four more tributes – three if she excluded Destan – who did not deserve to fall, yet had to so she could win in memory of her fallen friends.

Though Neviya had smothered down her smile and joviality underneath the layers she'd needed for the Games, she could still feel them fluttering in her heart as she thought of Britta, Linnea and Roarke. They were with her. Not in body, but in spirit. They willed her through the blazing inferno.

The wall of fire that had stopped her advancing on Destan straight away was now behind her, Neviya taking a longer route to avoid the crumbling treetop structure. It was now a misshapen pile of burning debris behind her as she jumped over a rose bush, almost tripping over a clump of roots, and she continued to pump her arms and legs to carry her on speedily towards her fleeing enemy.

Destan, in the distance, was panicking. His entire body ached – the skin torn into rivulets of blood that hung by his broken hands from clinging onto the tree for dear life. He could barely see ahead of him, his eyes teary and misty, his lungs choking on smoke that he continued to cough a hacking cough that shook through his entire body. He felt weak – every fibre of his body willing him to fall over and let what was about to happen just happen.

But Destan refused. He refused to give into weakness. He refused to let himself stumble at the final hurdle. After all the stupid, silly actions he'd taken, he was somehow now in the final chase and he could see it just on the horizon: his Victory. And behind him, a girl hell-bent on stopping him reaching it.

He managed to avoid a tree root as he heard the running behind him reach an even louder volume. Destan was able to turn, bring up his spear clumsily, as Neviya's own weapon collided with his. A metallic ring reverberated around. They had an audience of buzzing red fireflies, spreading the flames through the trees, a coliseum of burnt red and orange. Neviya ground her teeth together and watched Destan, waiting for him to spring into action, knowing him to be more impulsive than she was.

He didn't move a muscle. Pain flared through his body but he bit his tongue to stop him crying out. Holding the spear was agonizing enough, clamped between fingers that were shot with wooden splinters, ripped apart that left his grip clumsy.

"Neviya," Destan said. He had no quip. Nothing annoying or antagonizing to say. If anything, he silently and inwardly commended her on making it this far. He'd always seen Linnea as the more rational of the group – Neviya clinging to Britta's every musical laugh and silly, spotlight-craving whim. Yet here she stood. Resolute in killing him. "Final five, huh. Can you believe it?"

Neviya just shook her head. "How about we don't speak. I wouldn't want to burn to death before whatever happens actually happens."

"The Games have stolen your voice? Fine," Destan shrugged, though fearful, literally terrified at having to face a girl that seemed much more well put-together than him; but he was ready to take a stand. "Let's do this."

He swung his spear at Neviya and she easily swiped it away with her own, twisting it around her torso and lashing out, jabbing the spear as her feet gracefully swept her body forwards in unison with her weapon. He hit it away and jumped backwards, avoiding Neviya's fist that tried to shatter his nose, and he side-stepped another tree root that threatened to trip him over.

Though the world burned around them, in this moment, it was just two trained Careers fighting earnestly. It was exactly the type of fight Destan had always wanted to avoid – a purveyor of using words and masks to get what he wanted. Because deep down, he had never believed he was good enough. But as he dodged another blow from Neviya, hitting out at her with his own spear and managing to slice open her cheek, he felt confidence bloom in his chest.

A confidence that he knew his mother would be proud of. Yet it was _his_ confidence, and he allowed it to fill him up, disregarding his mother's opinion. It was him in this Arena – not her. It had never been about her.

Neviya cried out in pain but did not allow herself to stumble. She pulled out Britta's sword and with a weapon in both hands, though the sword being in her left which made it slightly awkward to use, she saw Destan's eyes now widen with newfound fear and she cut out with both. He easily dodged the spear but the sword bit into his shoulder and he matched Neviya's shout of pain.

"Fuck," he said through gritted teeth, eyeing up both weapons, unsure of his next move.

A firefly flitted between the two of them and he made the stupid decision to try and swat it away, mirroring exactly what Neviya had just done, blistering his skin with yet another swathe of agony that ripped through his body. He fought through it. Kept his mind focused. And lunged again.

Neviya twisted her body sideways. Destan managed to knock Neviya's sword from her hand and brought his leg out, tripping her up, the spear now falling from her open fingers. She cursed loudly but grabbed out with her hands, wrapping them round Destan's ankle, bringing him down with her. He cried out as his chin collided with the muddy floor and he bit his tongue, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

With no apparent weapons, Destan rolled onto Neviya and glared at her, narrowing his eyes. A monster took over him. A hungry need to survive. Neviya saw it in his eyes and willed herself to fight as his hands wrapped round her throat.

 _No… no not now…_ Neviya felt tears in her eyes as her hand clumsily snatched thin air by her side as Destan's grip tightened. When she felt her body start to relax, Britta's smile somewhere in the distance, she found the backpack strap and swung it upwards in an arc, colliding with enough force to knock Destan sideways.

Where there had suddenly been a darker version of Destan, fixated on choking the life out of his fellow Career, he cried out with fear as he rolled sideways and saw Neviya unzip her backpack. Before he could do anything, he felt the burning pain in his neck, and suddenly the corners of his eyes went dark as she pulled the arrow out from his throat.

He choked on blood and stared at her, clamping his hand round the open wound. He tried to speak but couldn't make out anything as everything started to go blurry, dizzying Destan as he lolled his head back and felt his body relax against the tree stump.

Neviya watched the life literally pump out of Destan. She threw the arrow aside, picked up Linnea's spear and Britta's sword, the backpack over her shoulders, and quickly jumped over Destan as his cannon shook through the trees.

At the sight of another victim, the inferno seemed to only intensify, until something else happened. The red fireflies suddenly changed colour. Or lost their colour. No longer yellow, nor red, nor the green of a poisonous bounty, little hovering black-winged muttations brought with them a cloud of death. As they hovered through the flames, not only were they extinguished, but the trees seemed to lilt, the rose petals died and shrivelled up, and a literal wall of destruction came flying towards Neviya.

She gasped as Destan's body seemed to rot instantaneously as they flew past him, enshrouding him in pitch blackness, and she ran for it.

Her entire body protested, but this was it. She was so close.

So close.

 _I'm almost there._

* * *

From where she sat on the crest of the hill, the tower looming up behind her, Carys watched the flames rip through the forest in total destruction.

She could feel the warmth against her cheeks and closed her eyes, thoughts drifting to mind that she could no longer control. A blonde-haired boy amongst towering grass, transforming Carys into who she now was. Her standing on the stage at the Reaping, unable to control her fists from shaking at her side, fearfully watching Hale weep from his position in the crowd. Meeting Shual. Pushing away their Escort. Maisley, Castor and Ponche – each engraved into her being in their own way.

 _Especially Maisley._ Carys could still hear her painful sobs as she crawled through mud and did not hate the girl for what she had done. She had simply been trying to survive. Carys allowed her mind to try and find some semblance of peace from everything she had gone through. From one emotion to the next, like the fire, they swathed over her, trying to overpower Carys, but she fought against it.

This close to the end – it did not matter whether she was the angry girl beating dummies, or the girl that tried to be a better person. She was just Carys, the girl who had killed two tributes and was now in the final five.

 _BOOM!_

The cannon ripped through the Arena.

 _Final four._

She opened her eyes and watched as the fire slowly went out. Carys stood up, exhausted, yet as far as she was aware, she still seemed to be relatively unscathed after everything she'd been through. It was hard for her to look at the Arena from her viewpoint and not feel some sense of anger over what the Gamemakers had done – making her dig deep into the darkest points of her mind, memories buried for a reason. But as she watched the fire go out and a cloud of black rise above the trees, she bit that all down and focused on herself.

Because it was just about her. Not even about Hale, anymore. She was the one fighting for her life. She was the one who could not allow herself to become overshadowed by any of the emotions she had been too stubborn in another life to give up.

A small part of Carys regretted not killing Celestin, but knew in that moment she could never have done it unless provoked. He was still out there, somewhere, unless he was the most recent cannon, and she knew soon enough once again she'd be pulled back towards a fight.

If the darkness that spread thickly through the trees, bridging the gap between sky and land was anything to go by, then clearly it was happening sooner than Carys would have liked.

Carys gripped onto the backpack strap around her shoulder firmly and almost turned to run when she saw it, trees rippling aside as to her horror, three bears came roaring through the woodland. Her heart choked the fearful cry in her throat but they seemed to totally ignore her. Completely. Focused on something else as they scampered over the hill and disappeared into another part of the forest.

 _What the-?_

Carys could not finish the thought. The darkness continued to spread and she saw from where the bears had just ran, the dark, pinpricks of black fireflies flittering towards her. With it, they brought forth the wall of pitch blackness, and she turned around startled, pumping her legs and arms swiftly to carry her towards the forest.

Carys thought about all those memories swirling around her mind but ground her teeth together and shook them away forcefully. She was a tribute, she was a murderer, she was everything she had so stubbornly once believed she would never allow herself to become. But she'd lost control. It had happened. And with it, Carys was determined to see it through to the end. To make all the nightmares worth it.

She refused to look over her shoulder as she continued running, feeling a horrific chill seep into her bones. This was the final jump to be made.

The end of these Games.

 _I'm almost there._

* * *

 _Run, run, RUN!_

Sheridan had barely made it very far from where she'd finally killed Sinta, snuffing out the corrupted light from this world, when everything had fallen to smoke and fire.

And then it was gone. She wasn't close enough to have seen the actual flames, but the smoke was clear enough, choking even Sheridan from where she had been. With it though, as soon as that last cannon tore through her surroundings, came a darkness. Total in its suffering.

With it, however, more foreboding, came the fireflies.

She continued to rip her way through the Arena, ignoring the sting of the cuts littering her body, the awkward angle her nose was, the throb in her shoulder. She'd been put through the ringer in this Arena but Sheridan wasn't about to take anything she'd experienced for granted. She didn't feel strong or intimidating, she didn't feel as if anything was a guarantee, she just wanted to live.

It was a simple wish, yet being so close, she could almost feel it.

Saraya's arms around her shoulders. The rich, warm air of Eleven, a place she'd never thought she'd miss. Even the apple orchards, breaking her back for the devilish overlords that presided over her. She wanted it so much that she could almost feel the sun kissing her skin.

Yet Sheridan was not about to let herself be overcome by fantasy. She continued to run and pushed aside the memory of Iva and Sinta. Of what she had done to survive. She ignored the fact that someone she'd called an ally was still alive, if that cannon hadn't been his, and that no longer did those withered connections matter anymore.

If Sheridan was going to make it out of this alive, for just one final push she'd have to try and pretend that she distrusted the world the same way that she always had believed she did. No more trying to be a better person. No more trying to come up with excuses for her stubbornness. When she survived, she could search in her soul for the person she longed to be. Right now, it was simply easier being the Sheridan that she had always been.

The hovering cloud of death behind her continued to suffocate the flowers, shrivelling the rosy red petals, the beautiful daises, everything into nothing but a tidal wave of rot and decay. Even the ground seemed to crack in response to its touch.

The Arena was being killed before her very eyes and Sheridan did her best to continue to stagger through, ignoring the pain, and watched as from the corner of her eye she saw three hulking figures move swiftly through the trees.

Her heart pounded in her ears, blood running cold, as the three bears were not too far from where she was, lagging behind a couple of trees to her right. They did not seem to focus on her at all as she continued to sprint towards wherever there would be safety. The starlit sky had once seemed so beautiful but even the stars had gone out.

They only had the glow of the moon to guide them forwards. To where Sheridan would either kill and win, or die and be forgotten.

She watched as the smallest bear stumbled and fell. The fireflies quickly overpowered the small bear and whatever happened to it, Sheridan didn't have time to see as she herself tripped, a root snagging its way round her ankle. She cried and cursed aloud as the mud connected with her chin and with the startling motion came another wave of horrific memories.

The faces were instantaneous as they circled her mind. Teak, Altia, Bryce, Sinta and Celestin. She saw and willed them away as she struggled to stand up, dragging her leg as the black fireflies neared her, one breaking from the flock to land on her skin.

It was immediate.

The skin twisted into a dark, horrific shade of blue and black. The veins bulged and seemed to rot underneath the horrific slab of dead meat. She cried out with terror and forced herself upwards, dragging her useless leg behind her, further and further forwards as much as she could.

Pain ravaged her body and Sheridan's bank of faces disappeared to be replaced by only one.

 _Saraya._

She was angelic in appearance and Sheridan smiled as her body collided with someone else, their arms wrapping round her chest as the two faced each other.

"Sheridan?"

She looked at Celestin and was forced back into the nightmare of the Arena. Her old ally stared at her, then looked at her leg, and his eyes blew wide in horror.

"Celestin!"

He looked at her, then at the impending cloud of death behind her, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

With those two words, everything Sheridan had been through fell to darkness and she saw Saraya's face one final time, smiling at her, peaceful in her glow.

Celestin pushed Sheridan over and watched as the fireflies overpowered her body, killing her instantly. Her cannon forced Celestin to pick up his pace as he continued through the trees and saw a golden light in the distance.

With Sheridan dead behind him, he broke through the treeline and found himself back where it had all started. The Cornucopia not too far, with supplies still lingering around in random piles. The fireflies seemed to stop once they reached the trees and with their arrival, two more faces appeared, stumbling through the forest to arrive at the Cornucopia.

Neviya and Carys.

From different positions, they looked at each other and Celestin swallowed the lump in his throat.

The final three.

 _I'm almost there._

* * *

 **5th:** Destan Moreau, District Four Male. **  
4th:** Sheridan Sannah, District Eleven Female.

* * *

 **And we have our final three tributes!**

 **Slightly shorter chapter but to be honest, with not many tributes left and things finally being wrapped up, the final chapters were never going to be that long.**

 **Been a hella crazy road getting here – 72 POVs before the Games even started and god knows how many more times some of these tributes have been mentioned in the Arena. I haven't actually made my mind up who is winning this yet. In fact, this final three has changed so much over the course of the Games that it only really settled yesterday as I planned this chapter. Two days ago, it was different. The way my placings change is so funny – one of these final three died 12** **th** **I think in my original list. And the other two weren't even in the original finale either. This story has written itself tbh, so much has changed.**

 **Questions!**

 _ **Who do you**_ _ **want**_ _ **to win?  
**_ _ **Who do you**_ _ **think**_ _ **will win?**_

 **Dayum son. Let's see what happens! I'm as excited as you are to see who I pick to win lmao.**

 **Oh btw please submit to Stoneheart if you haven't already. Plsssss.**


	38. The Blood on our Hands

**Chapter Thirty-Eight.**

* * *

The stage was set.

Neviya gripped tighter onto her spear, ignoring the pain in her open cheek, and watched as the fireflies behind her continued to hover. They were a barrier now. Stopping any of them from running. She looked at her fellow finalists in different parts of the forest and took the first step forwards, again tightening her grip on the spear, despite the sweat building between her fingers.

She had no idea why she was scared. This close to the end, ghosts hovered by Neviya's side, on one shoulder: Ponche and Destan, her victims. The other: Linnea, Roarke and Britta, her friends. They were her driving force.

They were the ones telling her not to take her training as an assured guarantee. These two – Celestin and Carys, she vaguely remembered – were not to be cast aside simply because they came from Six and Ten. She thought inwardly of how well they had done to get here, and though she could not see the expressions on their faces, she knew just like her they had gone through the horrors that every tribute in the Hunger Games always succumbed to eventually.

Whether alive or dead, these memories would haunt her. But she refused to die.

Two more tributes in the way.

And then her victory.

* * *

Celestin's ghosts were small in number – at least, the single ghost with the blood on his hands.

It had happened so quickly he hadn't really allowed himself to realise what he'd done. Sheridan was dead because of him. He'd pushed her. Someone he'd always enjoyed being around, someone he felt he could relate to more than anyone in his alliance, someone that was just as focused on the finish line as he truly believed he was.

He couldn't process his thoughts so he refused to allow himself time to think too much about them. Opposite him, he saw the Career from Two, Neviya with her flaming red hair, and felt the natural fear in his stomach at the sight of someone who had trained for this for however many years. In his hand, he had a measly knife. In her hands, she had a spear and a sword.

 _How can I compete with that?_

Yet, Celestin's thoughts then turned to the other ghosts, of Maisley, Sinta, Bryce, Teak and Altia. Of everyone that had lived and breathed and died around him. If he gave up now, then everything he'd been through would have been for nothing. This was his final step and then he'd be able to sleep again. He'd be able to finally find his peace.

Two more tributes in the way.

And then his victory.

* * *

Carys had the blood of Spelt and Maisley on her hands, but rather than focus on it seeping into her skin, she let them hover by her, detached from where she stood, determined and focused.

Her entire body and being protested against the step she took forwards, mirroring Neviya's, her mind screaming for her to stop and fall down and let the exhaustion and pain of a tidal wave of emotions sweep through her. But it was picturing herself back in the fields of Ten, no longer pummelling dummies for some stupid, distant reason, but standing side by side with Hale. Hugging him. Telling him _he_ would be okay, when he had always been the one to tell her that.

She knew, all along, that she had been a stubborn ass incapable of being loved. Yet she had always craved the love from those she had pushed away. Carys had done some terrible things, seen some terrible things, but she was also part of a terrible system. Though the rage was always there, lingering in her heart, she had found something else – found a way of holding it back and using it for the betterment of herself, rather than using it as a way of blaming everyone else but her own actions.

The pain she had gone through hadn't been because of some horrible, divine intervention. She had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was the victim. Not the reason.

One final push and she could make it home. It had been a horrific journey and she would never forgive herself for some of the actions she'd made, but her mind was now an open book, and she refused to close the chapter.

Two more tributes in the way.

And then her victory.

* * *

With both Carys and Neviya taking a step forwards, Celestin felt compelled to do the same. He looked over at Carys, the girl from Ten, and with her still alive he only saw Maisley, now one of the twenty-one tributes that had not made it this far.

And yet, instead of anger or grief, he simply felt a reluctant sense of acceptance. Because Maisley had tried to kill Carys. It had been her own fault. He knew Maisley had been willing to do whatever it took to win these Games and whilst he missed her, he was almost thankful she was no longer here. Having to kill her as the final hurdle would have been a lot harder.

Emotionally, anyway.

Killing Neviya and Carys would prove to be a lot more challenging physically.

Carys was cautious as her eyes flitted between the boy from Six that she could have killed very easily the other day, and the final Career in these Games. In her hand she only had a knife, same as Celestin, whereas Neviya was armed to the teeth. Befitting her role as a trained killer.

Carys couldn't help herself. If she was about to die, she needed to hear her voice once more, strained and pained and twisted through everything she'd experienced. It was her own way of remaining stubborn to the end.

"How many have you killed?" Carys called out, eyes pointed on Neviya, narrowing.

Despite knowing that she was just another teenager, Carys' disdain for these volunteers, those that had willingly chosen this path, was still alive. Celestin felt it too, though not to the same degree. He'd once dismissed the notion of training as ludicrous and stupid yet not worth his thoughts and feelings. Now, knowing that Neviya was here, clearly the strongest contender, he couldn't help but feel the unfairness of it all.

"Three," Neviya said. "But don't tell me you've made it this far without tainting your own hands."

Carys winced but shook her head of the image of Spelt and Maisley. It had been needed. "Two."

Celestin found his voice, finally. "One."

"So, we're all killers then," Neviya said. "If it makes any sort of difference, we've all come such a long way. At the end of the day, I don't think anyone can say anything to argue with that."

"Oh yes, I feel extremely proud of myself," Carys said.

Celestin just laughed. He couldn't help it. Even after everything, the three of them still had tiny shards of their previous selves. He hoped that if he won this, he could still retain some of the better parts of his personality. Not the indolence or the lack of care, but the smarts he brought, the perceptiveness that had always been smothered underneath the nihilism. The Games had brought forward shades of himself that Celestin was happy still existed.

But first – Carys and Neviya.

And for Carys, in her mind, it was just Neviya. She saw the most immediate threat, and knew no matter what had happened between her and Celestin, no matter what had happened between her and everyone else in this Arena, if she wanted to survive Neviya had to go.

"Celestin!" she shouted, looking over at him, and then her eyes landed on something silver not too far from where she stood. The benefit of the Cornucopia area being the stage for the finale: lots and lots of weapons. "Meet you in the final two? Make the right decision."

She ran for it, straight towards the axe that was closest to her, and swept it up into her hands. Celestin seemed rooted to the spot but as he realised exactly what Carys was doing, he ran forwards, finding whatever else that he could spot in the grass that was a little bit better than the knife.

Neviya gritted her teeth together in inward frustration. She should have known what her position as a Career meant in the face of two outer-District tributes. They would see her as the most imminent threat.

She ran straight for Carys, labelling her internally as the biggest competition right now, and when the girl from Ten spotted Neviya's nearby presence, instead of turning to face her, she ran straight towards Celestin, hoping and praying that he'd made the right decision.

They didn't have to like each other, but it was necessary. Everything she felt she was channelling into this final push. She could piece together the broken shards later on. Right now, she needed Celestin.

And as much as he still felt the pain of Maisley's death, he needed Carys.

"Got something?" Carys said, her eyes landing on Celestin's sword. "Good. C'mon."

Neviya watched the advancing figures of Carys and Celestin. She pulled out Britta's sword from its scabbard and for the final time, pictured the ghosts by her side, channelled their energy into her drive, and ran for the two of them.

Her sword went over Carys' head as she ducked but she kicked out, catching Carys in the knee and sending her to the grass. Celestin felt the terror rip through his body in a monstrous wave but he couldn't run and hide anymore. The shadows were not meant for a finalist.

He brought his own sword up clumsily, half unaware of where he had it positioned, but luck was on his side as it clashed with Neviya's own weapon and the metallic ring reverberated around the grass area. She twisted her spear around and Celestin jumped backwards, avoiding its sharp point, jumping back again and leaning his body to the right as Neviya tried to swipe it out and catch him in the hip.

Neviya was now in-between Carys who was stumbling into a standing position, and Celestin who haphazardly slashed his sword out, hoping it would connect with Neviya's weapon.

He caught sight of Carys and nodded.

Neviya caught sight of Celestin's nod and twisted around.

"Don't you even—"

Neviya's spear almost ripped into Carys' chest if it wasn't for Neviya having to bring up her sword in her other hand at the exact same time to counter-act Celestin's own attack. Two against one and she knew she was still the most competent, but even with their slapdash technique, Neviya found her already weak body weakening under the strain that much more.

She let the grip on her weapons slacken and she jumped back, both Carys and Celestin being carried forwards by their momentum and they stumbled together, crashing into each other.

Carys wrapped her arms around Celestin's waist to keep her balance, forcing him onto his feet as his knees started to give. Their eyes met and for the first time, they really saw each other. Both had been beaten down beyond anything they could have imagined. In both their eyes, they saw the pain they had both inflicted and been a victim of. Carys' lips twitched upwards into some semblance of a comforting smile and she nodded. Celestin mirrored the gesture and both turned to face Neviya once more.

Her spear pointed at Carys, her sword pointed at Celestin, and once more, she met their attack with as much vigour as she could plaster on. Right now, she was the monster in their eyes, the very same person she had always tried not to be back in Two. Back then, everything had been the same shade of grey, the same dull paint-stroke that had contaminated the lives of so many in Two. She had tried to be a lighter shade yet with the same pragmatism the Academy had always valued.

She thought she'd bridged together the best of both ways, but now, she was simply just a trained tribute in the way of two innocents surviving. She couldn't help but feel something in her chest as she started to realise that, but nothing would get in her way. She could do some self-mending later on.

The healing wasn't for now.

Everything suddenly seemed to slow into a pace that centred the cameras in on the fight – all three tributes vying for survival.

But it was a matter of luck that cast the first stroke.

Carys fought against the weapon clasped in the hand that Neviya had never really trained with, a hand that still felt somewhat clumsy, cutting the air as Carys' own weapon clashed with it.

Celestin had less skill than Carys, and even lesser of a skill than Neviya, and he was fighting against the hand that Neviya had perfected over the years. It was the hand that had scored her a ten. The highest of the girls.

And it found its mark.

Celestin tried to duck under the sword but his timing was off and he didn't account for Neviya being able to quickly swipe it backwards. His eyes seemed to widen as time slowed down and he saw the metal come for his neck. It was over quickly.

 _Honora…_

Neviya's sword took Celestin's head from his shoulders in a sudden streak of crimson blood. Carys stumbled backwards as Celestin's cannon shook the Arena and Neviya's sword lowered, her spear standing in her grip against the grass.

 _Final two._

Carys, without even meaning for them to, felt tears in her eyes. It was just another death. Another slice of horror that no matter what Carys did to try and evade these moments, they still followed her. She didn't even know Celestin. The only moments they'd spent together had been laced with mistrust and then tainted with Maisley's death.

She looked at Neviya and blinked her tears away, swiping away a sweaty strand of hair clinging to her forehead. The axe in her hand felt heavy. Yet she refused to let it go. She would not give up.

"I'm sorry," Neviya said.

Carys shook her head. "Save it."

She charged at Neviya, stupid though it may have been, but impatient to get this over with. Whatever the outcome would be, let it happen. Her axe met Neviya's spear and before she could bring up her sword, she punched out with her other hand, connecting with Neviya's shoulder that caused her hand to drop the second weapon.

Before Neviya could even scramble to pick it up, Carys' fist connected with Neviya's nose and pain exploded alongside a torrent of blood that gushed forth. Neviya growled with the sudden burst of stars blanketing her eyes but she shook them aside and met Carys' next attack.

Regardless of Carys' sudden savagery and determination, Neviya still knew what she was doing. The spear-head pierced Carys' shoulder, the girl from Ten unable to dodge the attack, and Neviya pushed forwards, the momentum pushing the bladed point all the way through her shoulder and Carys fell, impaled to the grass.

She screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. As her throat was torn apart with the pain she felt, Carys let the panicked tears now fall freely from her eyes. But still, even as Neviya took a step back to pick up her sword, she could not give up.

She couldn't.

Both girls had stories that could not end – homes to return to, lives to try and fit back together.

She gripped the shaft of the spear, roared with pain, and yanked it from her shoulder as she stood up on shaky feet. The corners of her eyes started to corrupt with darkness. Her stance was shaky but she ran towards Neviya before she could get her hand around the sword and tackled her to the ground.

Carys felt the lifetime of anguish, the innocent girl from before, the angry girl that came after, and the girl that had somehow found a way of bringing together everything into this survivor. She was a tribute that had been corrupted by the Games, but in her own way, she was still the Carys holding a middle finger up to the world.

She punched Neviya in her broken nose and the scream of pain made Neviya lose all control over herself.

Carys knew who the Capitol favoured in this fight. By winning, it would be her own last little way of retaining some of the stubbornness that she could no longer allow to be a part of her. She would make something of her life.

Neviya felt Britta, Linnea and Roarke's energy start to slip as tears started to well up through the blurry pain. Both girls rolled around in the grass, each trying to gain the upper hand, when Carys felt the handle of the knife in the grass.

She couldn't bring it up to Neviya's body, the girl from Two clearly stronger, but Carys held the knife upwards, blade first. She grabbed onto the scruff of Neviya's collar, spat a wad of blood in her face, and yanked Neviya downwards.

The knife went into Neviya's eye and the scream that started to break from Neviya's lips was silenced as Carys yanked her forwards with the final exertion of her strength. The knife went through her eye, into Neviya's skull, and silenced the fiery-haired girl from Two.

Carys' grip immediately slackened and she threw Neviya's limp body off of her. She screamed, balling her hands into fists, and cried into the mud, the agony in her shoulder keeping her fixed to the grass. Her eyes were misty but she could just make out the moon in the sky. The only source of light to be seen. And then the cannon, distant and unremarkable.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the Victor of the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games. Carys Lavell – the tribute of District Ten!"_

She barely heard her name as the darkness creeping from the corners of her eyes swallowed her focus entirely.

In the distance, she could hear Hale's laughter, and somewhere else, a group of three tributes huddled together, looking at her.

Ponche, Castor and Maisley.

They smiled and she felt a spark in her chest that made accepting the darkness feel inviting, warm and comforting. Its arms enveloped her and she drifted away.

Away from the Arena.

Away from the Games.

Away from the two dead bodies.

From the ashes of a girl that people simply labelled angry, was this Victor of the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games.

Perhaps her stubbornness had paid off in the end. Refusing to die had been her saving grace.

 _I won._

 _I'm alive._

* * *

 **3rd:** Celestin Elan, District Six Male.  
 **2nd:** Neviya Vavrick, District Two Female.  
 **1st:** Carys Lavell, District Ten Female.

* * *

 **Well there we have it folks. Twenty-four tributes went in and one lil gal came out. I know I couldn't please everyone with who won – the person some people wanted to win, was the person that others did not want to win. It was nice seeing such a range of opinions, tbh!**

 **I'm so proud of this story, honestly. Next chapter we will see our Victor in their epilogue along with a little insight into my opinion on each character – maybe some reasons why they placed where they did etc. Some people might be interested in that, some might not be? You don't have to read it lmao it's nothing major.**

 **But yes. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted but we have our crowned tribute! I've got a bunch of questions I want to ask so let's get to it!**

 **Questions:**

 _ **Favourite tribute going into the Games?**_

 _ **Now that the Games are finished, favourite tribute overall taking into account plot/development etc?**_

 _ **Favourite death scene?**_

 _ **Most shocking moment?**_

 _ **If you had been writing this story, who would you have picked for Victor?**_

 _ **Overall thoughts on Forever Neverland?**_

 **The last question is the most important, imo. Thanks guys! See you with the epilogue.**


	39. Fill the Crown

**Chapter Thirty-Nine.**

* * *

 **Epilogue.**

* * *

 **Carys Lavell, 16 years old;  
District Ten Female – Victor of Forever Neverland. **

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Capitol; District folk watching from One through to Twelve, I am so absolutely proud to welcome to the stage…" _Oh god, here we go. Here we go, here we go, here we go._ "…Carys Lavell! Victor of the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games!"

Carys wanted to be sick.

But more than that, she just wanted to go home.

She hated the pageantry so very much – that had not changed.

In a sunset orange dress, hair delicately curled to bounce on her shoulders, Carys walked onto the stage from behind the red curtain and waved tentatively to the cameras. Her mentor Cynara had done her best to prepare her for this part – that it would be tough, so soon after the Arena, to see what had transpired. Carys did not want to be here. Not in the slightest

Though she wore a gracious smile, nothing too extravagant or un-Carys like, she felt her stomach swirling with nerves and anger at having to be forced to be here. It wasn't enough being in the Games and killing three teenagers, she now had to relive it all. She was not ungrateful for the fact that she had survived, she was just tired. So very, very tired.

She sat opposite Anastasia and sank into the velvet cushions of the armchair. Again, she wore that simple smile and just waited for Anastasia to begin. She'd never been a talker. Again, not much change in that regard.

"First things first, how is your shoulder?"

Luckily for her, her stylist wasn't stupid and hadn't put her in a strapless dress. It covered up the bandaging and the stitches and everything else that had gone into repairing the gaping wound that Neviya's spear had caused. It hurt, ever so much, no matter the pain-killers they pumped into her system, but even for Anastasia and more importantly the Capitolites watching from their screens at home, the very same people that cheered on through the deaths of twenty-three children, she refused to show how weak she felt.

"It's fine," she said. "Absolutely fine."

"You're a tough cookie, aren't you?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "We all went through a lot."

" _You_ went through a lot, my dear," Anastasia placed a toxic hand on Carys' knee and she wanted to swat it away. But Carys was learning, and had learnt through experience, how to no longer be _that_ girl anymore. How to keep the storm at bay. " _You_ won the Games."

She shook her head. " _We_ went through a lot. I might be the only one sat here, but that doesn't take away from those that lost their lives."

Anastasia's hand retreated and she placed it in her lap. It wasn't a rebellious notion, not at all. Twenty-three tributes had died and Carys knew sitting here, watching the audience look at her, that she was definitely _not_ the candidate they wanted for a Victor. They'd rather Neviya, the embodiment of a champion, to be sat opposite Anastasia.

 _Well fuck them,_ Carys thought, grinning inwardly. _They've got me instead._

"Shall we not beat around the bush then and get straight to it? I'm sure we'd all love to see your Games one final time!"

"Can't wait," Carys replied.

Anastasia was no fool. She stared at Carys with a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Carys wasn't an idiot either, though. She knew not to push it – she couldn't be that girl hitting dummies, or tugging at her crotch on the Chariot with frustration, or refusing to give Anastasia on their first encounter any sense of what she was thinking. But that did not mean she couldn't have a little bit of fun herself.

She'd earned the right.

They swept through Carys' reaping and showcased highlights from some of the more prominent characters in the Games. Sheridan walking to the stage with angry fists. Chancellor volunteering with enthusiasm and psychotic verve. Nikos surprisingly taking the place of a weedy looking boy from Three – something Carys, even to this day, still did not understand.

Her time in the Capitol was another whirl-wind and if there was one piece of advice Cynara had given Carys that she focused on, it was that she had to look as if she were watching, but she could lose herself to her thoughts. Because they would never leave her. The sooner she learnt to cope and deal with them, the better her life as a Victor would be.

"This is my favourite bit!" Anastasia squealed.

The cameras did an overshot of the Arena – everything from the tower, to the treetop village, to the cave, to the cottage that Carys had never come across. It was all there. Then it came back to focus in on the Cornucopia, a ring of tributes around it, and Carys couldn't help but feel the nausea circulate through her stomach.

Her stylist, again, knew Carys better than Carys would have liked to admit. Her dress had ruffles and pockets that she could ball her fists into and hide them away from the cameras. She did just that, the emotions flickering in her chest, as she bit her lip and watched and heard as the gong sounded.

Chancellor died, killed by the girl from Seven. Then Ponche – Neviya spearing him through the back.

It was the next death, however, so quick into the Games, that Carys did not want to see. All eyes were on her as Spelt tackled Maisley to the ground, Anastasia wearing the worst smile she'd ever seen, and Carys' heart froze.

 _It was an accident?!_

She hadn't even considered it, but more importantly, Maisley hadn't said anything.

She had lost all distaste towards the girl the second she'd realised that maybe in her position, as the youngest and smallest tribute, she would have done the exact same. Carys had her anger that she'd been able to channel into something meaningful, Maisley had her lies.

But it still hurt Carys to watch as she killed Spelt on screen, knife into his neck, believing that Spelt had been trying to hurt Maisley. In that second, she knew she'd made up her mind to protect Maisley. And yet all along, it had been a ruse.

At that moment, Carys detached herself, sinking into her mind as the re-cap swept on by. Castor's death hurt to watch. _That could have just as easily been me._ If it had been, would Castor have been sitting in front of them all? She had no idea how to answer that question. Luck had simply played a huge part in her survival.

Carys' complete lack of control had become second-nature now to her. She accepted it. She'd tried so hard to control her pain and trauma through her rage and that had just been a silly, stubborn perspective on the way the world worked. She accepted that she had no real stake in what she did – if she could accept that, then it made it easier to deal with what she felt inside.

More tributes died. More and more and more.

 _Shual. Maisley._ They hurt the most to re-watch.

 _Celestin. Neviya._

And then Carys – sinking into unconsciousness in the mud. She did not need to see these Games again, but as the screen faded to black and confetti rained down from the rafters above the stage, Carys was forced back into the mindset of the Carys lying in the grass, Neviya's dead body by her side, Celestin's head not too far from her elbow, and Carys felt the hot tears in the corners of her eyes.

"How emotional it must be," Anastasia said, spitting out a bit of pink confetti.

Carys let it swallow her up. She wanted to go home – she wanted to forget – she wanted to live her life in a way that would make herself feel better for what she'd done. She refused to be one of those Victors that fell apart because there were twenty-three coffins soon to be buried that would always be with her.

It would be wrong to allow herself to simply fall into a dark pit that perhaps Carys almost longed. And as Anastasia wrapped her in an embrace, she wished the stage to open up and for the pair of them to fall into that abyss.

"For heaven's sake, smile," Anastasia whispered in Carys' ear. "Act like you want to be here."

 _Act._

It had always been an act, in their eyes. And it always would be.

From this moment on, no matter how she felt about it, to the Capitol she would be Carys Lavell, the Victor.

Not Carys Lavell, normal girl from Ten.

It was a change she would do her best to accept, because it was a change she knew so many others who were dead had wished for. She squeezed Anastasia back but couldn't help herself, leaning in to whisper in her ear, finding her voice somewhere underneath the shroud that she'd created.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Carys whispered. "Nice wig, by the way. I see that hasn't changed."

Regardless of what she'd gone through, Carys owed it to _herself_ to still retain some of who she had once been. Even a little slither.

And when Anastasia unwrapped her arms from the embrace, pulling at her hairline, Carys did indeed smile for the cameras.

* * *

"There you go little lady," the man said, tipping his hat to Carys. "It's one of the last ones at the back. Nice pink little side-house. Can't miss it."

Carys thanked the man and when he left in a trail of dust, she looked out at the wide-open fields of Ten. She'd never been this far back – there'd never been any need to. As soon as she was left alone, the nerves suddenly came back and Carys almost wished she'd never asked the man for a lift in the first place.

But she found her courage, pieces of it that she was slowly starting to work through, and nodded determinedly to herself. The sky was baking hot, ripples of sunlight and heat in the air, the dry, cracked mud dusty as she continued on her walk forwards.

Carys had a small piece of rope tied to her pocket. It had been Cynara's idea. Every-time she felt anything, anything that threatened Carys' resolve, she was to twirl the rope around. It was silly at first and Carys had thought the idea stupid, but Carys had slowly adjusted to the notion. It was a nice distraction – a small outlet for her nerves as she traversed the fields.

It had been a rollercoaster of feelings on her return to Ten and she still wasn't sure how she'd felt. In the crowd, she'd spotted her family, Hale with his smile and it had felt as if everything she'd done had been worth it. But then she'd also spotted him in the crowd – not just him, but _them._ And it had reminded her of the apple, Maisley's lie, her death, and everything else in the Games.

They no longer had power over her anymore. They did not. She was not a victim of her past but a source of strength for her future.

She just had to be.

When the small girl sat cross-legged in the mud, sifting through a heap of compost spotted her, Carys' fingers spiralled the piece of rope as frantically as she could to stop her heart from leaping out of her nervous mouth. The girl stood up on small little legs and with every step closer to Carys, she only saw Maisley in her stature, her height and the nervous smile on her lips as they finally stood face to face.

"Miss Lavell?"

 _It's okay, Carys. You're okay. It's all going to be okay._

She took a deep breath and as soon as she found her voice, a smile erupted onto her face and she couldn't help but bridge the gap between her and the little girl. She enveloped Jemima Armenteros in a hug and Shual's younger sister relaxed into the embrace, clinging to Carys' shirt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Carys said through her tears.

In the blurry mist of her sadness and grief over Shual's death, she could see to the side a remarkable little building painted haphazardly in neon pink. The rest of the Armenteros' abode was humble – normal browns and greys and greens. Definitely Shual's stamp. But the pink was definitely Jemima's idea. She couldn't help but love the freedom in the ridiculously garish design.

"I miss him," Jemima said, pulling herself away from Carys. "But if I might say so, Miss Lavell—"

"—please, it's Carys."

"Carys," Jemima bit her lip and met the eyes of their newest Victor, teary eyes, eyes of a broken girl that was trying her best to manage this new life. "If I might say so, I'm very glad it's you that won, if it couldn't be him. I think Shual would have liked that."

Carys choked on her sob and nodded her head.

"I think so too."

* * *

It had been gruelling touring the country, parading herself around the place as Panem's newest idol, the face of the Hunger Games.

So many of the grey, ashen faces of the District folk despised her, it was clear to see. And in One, Four but especially Two, they looked at her as some anomaly. Something disgusting. A besmirch on their legacy.

Carys now found herself in District Six, the evening after her official showcase in front of the audience, and she clutched the invitation in nervous fingers. It had been difficult enough seeing the crowds of Six staring at her as she spoke scripted words about Celestin and Maisley's courage.

They'd seen it for themselves. Carys had murdered the little girl. And if she hadn't been standing here, there was a chance it could have been Celestin. Though Six most likely did not harbour much love for the elite that Maisley and Celestin were a part of, their winnings would have been useful for the poorest of them all.

The Peacekeepers flanking the door nodded at her arrival. She patted down the orange dress – the same from her first interview after the Games – and stepped into the luxurious lobby of the Corvac Manor. Carys had adjusted herself to spectacle and what the finest amongst them had, but it did not mean she liked it anymore than she had done before she herself had become rich.

It had taken adjusting to her new life. And she still wasn't quite there. She preferred the grit and the dirt of the fields of Ten, not the maids scuttering around and the fuss that they made over her dresses, and the delicious food, and everything that was now a part of her new title.

This house and the invitation in her hands just reminded her more of a life she would never really understand. Yet, as ever, she refused to give up. Because giving up made her journey getting here tarnished with ungratefulness.

Carys' legs wobbled ever so slightly as she was escorted into the Dining Hall. Again, it was a huge room, portraits lining both walls and a central table filled with dinnerware, silvers and golds and jewel tones in abundance.

It was the regal-looking man in front, head of the table, that caught Carys' eye straight away, and a hush rippled through the room.

"Carys Lavell, how grateful I am for your acceptance of my invitation tonight."

To the left, the Corvac family just stared at her. Or what was left of it. There was an empty seat between the sad looking woman – Maisley's mother – and the elder brother that looked at Carys with a raised eyebrow.

 _I don't belong here. I don't. I don't._ Fear gripped her throat and she took a step back and collided with a maid who squealed in surprise. Carys choked out an apology and stared at Mayor Corvac, shaking her head side to side.

She was back in the Arena, Maisley with her broken leg, and Carys' knife… _my knife… my…_

"It's okay, Miss Lavell. It's a pleasure having you here."

A Peacekeeper escorted her to her seat and it was then that she noticed the family sat opposite her. The man and woman met her eye and nodded graciously, a broad-shouldered younger man sneering at her, much to Carys' immediate dislike. _He reminds me of Nikos._ But it was the girl with long blonde hair, a light blue dress and with eyes that stared into Carys, burrowing deep into her soul, that made Carys' hands immediately go to the rope tucked in a pocket in her dress.

"I thought we'd invite the Elan family over. They're old money, Carys," Mayor Corvac stated with a gratuitous gesture in the man and woman's direction. "Very dear friends of ours since Celestin and Maisley's tragic passing."

The girl staring at Carys snorted at that and all eyes landed on her disdainfully.

She ignored them and continued looking at Carys. Carys wished she would look anywhere else. Anywhere but in her direction.

As the courses were served, Carys went immediately for a goblet of posca, watery-wine with honey and herbs that immediately took some of the edge off. She sunk into its warm embrace but refused to have another glass when it was offered. Though she enjoyed the luscious feeling in her stomach, she would not waste away like some of the other Victors. Too much vice and she'd forget the fight she'd been through.

Carys, though terrified of facing her emotions and past, had become used to channelling them into her day-to-day life. They gave her a foundation.

When dinner came to an end and the families mingled, Carys headed for the open balcony that overlooked the nicer side of District Six. Glittering stars in the sky and a full-moon reminded her of the forest of the Arena, but as she rested her chin in her hands against the balcony, she tried to think of them as nothing but what they actually were. The Arena's stars and moon had been fake. These were the very real, very beautiful celestial beings.

"Carys."

She turned her head and jumped up, meeting the eyes of the girl that had not said a word since snorting at Mayor Corvac's introduction to her family. She couldn't escape now. Trapped against a leap that would mean certain death or a return to the horrific atmosphere inside the Dining Hall.

Carys tried to smile but knew it was fake and pointless so just met the girl's eyes and straightened her back, one hand in her pocket.

She couldn't help herself. Her voice travelling before her mind could focus. "You look like him."

The girl's shoulders relaxed at that and her lip seemed to wobble. Carys had never been good at the whole comforting thing and even now, after everything she'd seen and done, she found it hard enough comforting herself in the darkest of times.

She just watched Honora Elan go through a wave of emotions before she composed herself, straightening a crease in her blue dress and staring back at Carys.

"I don't blame you."

Carys was stunned by that. She hadn't killed Celestin, but just by being alive it meant that she had killed him in a weird, twisted sense. It was why the Hunger Games were so terrible. Because even though she'd actually only killed three tributes, by standing here opposite Honora, in a way she had killed all twenty-three.

Twenty-three ghosts she would have to live with forever.

"I'm sorry about what happened to him."

Honora sighed and again, whatever tension she had inside of her, building up and up and up in anticipation of meeting Carys face to face, fell to pieces immediately. Carys related to that sense of a tidal wave needing to either burst forth, or be smothered down. She'd live with it forever.

"It's not your fault. You survived. You did what any of us would have done."

"How can the Corvacs look at me and not care, when I did what I did to their daughter?"

Honora snorted again and shook her head, side to side, pain flaring in those blue eyes. "Because that's what people like that do. They may as well have been born in the Capitol. Maisley was his biggest investment and she failed. His emotional response at the Reaping might have been borne out of love, but he's had a long time to piece together his appearance again. Maisley's death is more a stain than anything else."

Carys felt Honora's anger and together, they united in it.

"I miss her," Carys said. "And I miss Celestin."

"You didn't know him like I did," Honora said, laughing. "If you'd have known him before, you wouldn't have liked him."

"Try me."

And so, Honora relayed stories of a boy from Six that would rather his bed to a conversation, would rather sleep to the idea of having to actually get up, eat, shower and _live._

Carys couldn't quite believe it, but she revelled in it all the same.

Hooked to every word, Maisley and Celestin were alive once more. Through Carys, through Honora, their memories would not be forgotten.

* * *

She felt Hale's hand in hers and the two Lavell children stood in the fields of Ten, facing the row of dummies, silly straw beings that looked back at Carys and reminded her too much of what she had once been.

"It's okay," Hale said, comfortingly. "You can do this."

Carys was reminded of the girl from before the fields and the boys had led her willingly to what she'd believed had been a gathering of friends. She remembered the innocent Carys that had smiled and laughed and _loved_. And then she remembered the girl broken and bitter and stubborn to her hatred. One of the dummies was still missing a head and she shivered at the memory of what that version of Carys had been like.

She'd tried to believe she was stubborn to a fault, but underneath it all, she blamed herself for being so weak as to allow people to hurt her. But now, standing in front of the dummies, she was not to blame for anything bad that had happened to her. She was just a normal girl, though a Victor now, who was dealing with her feelings and trying her best to survive through them.

The dummies were a token of a Carys that no longer existed.

Hale squeezed her hand again and Carys pulled him in close, ruffling his hair with a laugh. A tear rolled down her nose as she struck the match, and she didn't even look back as the dummies went up in flames, the two Lavell children heading back to their new life, their new home, their new future.

Carys was nothing special – she never had been. And though there were still parts of her that shook in anger at the face of a bad memory, or the face of someone that reminded her of the injustice this world ravished in, she was learning.

That was all she could do.

Step by step, Carys would get there. Anger, sadness, bitterness, happiness, whatever it was. Carys could do it. For all twenty-three of her ghosts, Carys would survive and live her life in the best way that she could.

Bit by bit, that was what she told herself. Today was today. _Let's make it through today, and then we can worry about tomorrow._ Tomorrow was tomorrow.

And her future was hers.

Because she was a survivor.

She always had been.

* * *

 **And that ladies and gents, is a wrap on Forever Neverland!**

 **It's been a wild ride. Whether you liked or didn't like my format for the Games, I have my opinion on some of** _ **those**_ **opinions, but for the most part I can see how much people have really fell for this story and I can say from the bottom of my heart how much it has meant to me. I've worked my socks off for this and I can genuinely say I truly believe it is my best SYOT and these are the best tributes I've worked with. Some were easier than others, and below you'll see a little message about each. They're honest messages – please don't take offence, but that's just the way it goes.**

 **From Chancellor to Damon, from Linnea to Altia, this cast has been a wild ride. I've loved every second of it.**

* * *

 **24** **th** **: Chancellor Darrian, D1M –** So, no one really liked him, but I'm glad some saw him just for the entertaining character he was. I had fun writing him and could have gone down the route of him being a stereotypical antagonist until some Career blow-up midway through the Games. But I couldn't. The irony of him dying first was too good a developmental point for other tributes to ignore. His death was a catalyst for a lot that went on.

 **23** **rd** **: Ponche Garland, D11M –** This is a very honest account of my perspective on tributes, and Ponche was difficult to write, if I'm truthful. I don't have anything against tributes that fall to the shadows but in an alliance made up of such character, he didn't have it in him to make it far.

 **22** **nd** **: Spelt Brassard, D9M –** I can say it now but UGH GUYS? Why did you not like him?! I was a huge Spelt fan, I found him relatable and very endearing with his introverted attitude but also his ability to just smile and enjoy his little slice of life. But he had no plots for him in my plan for the Games, so yeah he couldn't make it far.

 **21** **st** **: Armina Rione, D8F –** This one hurt but I never connected with Armina until her final Capitol POV during the interviews, and by that point I knew I wanted her to go for Albie's development. She was another difficult one to pinpoint for me, but the route I took her down really caught me up and I appreciated what she provided.

 **20** **th** **: Teak Underwood, D5M –** To me, as he allied with Bryce and Sinta, he was just a version of them that didn't stand out as much. That's my writing so it's nothing personal, but he just didn't have anywhere to go in the Games.

 **19** **th** **: Altia Wright, D12F –** Paired with Ponche, she was one of the hardest tributes to write for. I enjoyed intertwining her backstory with Damon which made it slightly easier to get into her mindset but again, in such a large alliance, there was no need for her to survive past the bloodbath. There were just more plot points for others.

 **18** **th** **: Castor Velboa, D8M –** His first pre-Reaping POV was very hard for me to get into his character. At that point, I didn't see much hope for him. But ugh I came to love him so much in the Capitol and I didn't originally have him dying the first death outside the bloodbath, but I think it was just needed for Maisley and Carys further down the line. He was fun!

 **17** **th** **: Damon Millers, D12M –** Such a sweet tribute to write! He was a personal favourite of mine to write, but from a developmental viewpoint, I didn't have much plans for him in the Arena. He was a perfect catalyst for Henley and Iva to develop that little bit more. Still, I never understood why people said he was a backstory-heavy tribute, because in my opinion his personality was always shining through with every action he took and word he said.

 **16** **th** **: Shual Armenteros, D10M –** One of my favourite pre-reaping POVs to write. I enjoyed his logical, realistic mindset into the Games. Maybe it wasn't the most stand-out of personalities to have but I don't need every tribute to try and grab the spotlight. With Albie's development kicking off, though, his death was needed for her to progress further. He was a lot of fun to write, though!

 **15** **th** **: Bryce Hayfield, D7M –** I ordered the tributes from favourite to write to least favourite, and he was second! Honestly – I kind of regret killing him as soon as I did, but also it just meant Sinta could shine a little bit more on her own in her newfound way. I saw myself a lot in him tbh and yeah that just made him all the more compelling to write about.

 **14** **th** **: Linnea Halvard, D1F –** I'll be honest, Linnea suffered from like the 8-month gap between her first POV, and corona hitting us and me suddenly updating at the speed of light. Even though I went back and read her form, she became tricky, but that's my fault for the gap. I enjoyed what she brought definitely, but her death was needed anyway to spice up the Career dynamic. Glad loads of the readers enjoyed her tho!

 **13** **th** **: Iva Giorgi, D9F –** I loved Iva in her pre-reaping chapter and the Capitol. Honestly a favourite. And then the Games hit and she took a step back for me. Sometimes that just happens, tho. I'm glad she finally found a friend in Damon and I enjoyed her little bit of development, but the fact that from a writer's perspective she sunk into the background a bit, just meant she had to go.

 **12** **th** **: Nikos Rioux, D3M –** Everyone disliked you but I'm not everyone which is why you made it to the halfway point. I really just enjoyed writing your POVs, and as a writer, I want to write POVs that I enjoy, which is why you came 12th. I'm not a fan of volunteers from non-Career Districts but I tried to show enough development in his mindset to bring out this sense of regret in him. He was fun!

 **11** **th** **: Roarke Lumally, D2M –** A crowd favourite and I can see why. I had a lot of fun with him, but again a bit like Iva and some others, I preferred him before the Games. I wanted to show a bit more strength, however, and I like the development he went through during his time in the Arena. For Neviya, Albie and Destan's survival however, I needed him to go.

 **10** **th** **: Britta Somerset, D4F –** She won the poll for a reason and I distinctly remember her pre-reaping POV being my favourite to write. I just had so much fun with it. Maybe she wasn't adapting so well to the Arena, but I think she was just in her own Britta way. It was between her and Neviya to make it the furthest out of their little group but Neviya to me always just had that edge that I enjoyed taking a bit longer. But honestly, loved Britta. So much.

 **9** **th** **: Henley Pereira, D5F –** I can tell the truth now but she was an original bloodbath lmao. I absolutely loved her first POV back in Five, but as other tributes began to shine more in the Capitol, she didn't and I thought about offing her quite quickly. But then I wrote her third POV in the Capitol and I realised again what I enjoyed so much about her character. Plus, her turning healer into killer was a fun little route for her character to go down. Her story wrapped up pretty nicely once Iva was dead, however, so there was nowhere else left for her to go.

 **8** **th** **: Maisley Corvac, D6F –** I have no idea if her submitter is even still around but ugh I loved Maisley, and I think so many of the readers did too. It was refreshing to write a tribute that was aware of her younger age but used it to her advantage and twisted it into something that actually worked in her favour. She didn't read as stereotypically young and that was what I found so interesting about her character. Not many liked her in her first POV back in Six, but they grew to love her, and I was happy to see that.

 **7** **th** **: Sinta Montero, D7F –** Such a positive person and the second I saw how positive she was, I knew that I would twist that around and turn her into someone else. It wasn't initially planned that she would kill Chancellor. It was actually going to be Sheridan. But the development just worked so well for her character and at the end of everything, she just wanted peace from what she had turned into. Miss her!

 **6** **th** **: Albie Mathison, D3F –** A surprise for me as a writer. I knew where I wanted her development to start off, but didn't intend for her to go this far if I'm honest. But she literally wrote herself and plot-wise, she was essential to this story, so I'm glad I took her as far as I did. Taking down two Careers as well was no easy feat and I loved being able to bring out her emotions but still keep true to her character. Another fun one to write.

 **5** **th** **: Destan Moreau, D4M –** Right before the Career fight, he was down to die instead of Britta. But I just couldn't because I adored the way he filled the antagonist's role without actually being that capable of an antagonist. He just felt so real to me and yeah he wasn't likeable but he knew that and I think being able to peel back all these layers to his character just exposed him for what he was. He was the villain of this story but not a typical villain, and I think that's why I took him further than I originally planned.

 **4** **th** **: Sheridan Sannah, D11F –** I was nervous coming to her first POV because she was a very complex character but I fell in love like instantly. She was a crowd favourite as well. I know some didn't see her going that far over others who had more out-there development, but sometimes you don't need to go down that route. Sometimes, and with Sheridan she was the clear case for me, you can go through shit but still do your best to stay true to who you are. No one ever said that about Neviya which I found funny, because to me both Sheridan and Neviya still had glimpses of who they have always been, but had just adapted to the Games in a better way. She was the original Victor, back when it was the first draft of placings like 5,607 drafts ago. A great, great tribute!

 **3** **rd** **: Celestin Elan, D6M –** A favourite of mine right from the very beginning. I wasn't exactly sure where I was going to take him and originally he didn't make it this far, but the change on his attitude whilst still showing glimpses of who he has always been is exactly the reason why I did take him this far. Some said in their reviews he did a lot more than say Carys or Neviya, but I didn't see it. That's kind of why he didn't win because in terms of key events, he hadn't been exposed to much. A lot of his development was more internal which was so much fun to write, however. Loved him!

 **2** **nd** **: Neviya Vavrick, D2F –** Another favourite of mine. Not from the beginning, if I'm honest. I preferred Roarke and Britta. But she started to stand out to me the second I realised she had the best parts of Britta and then the best parts of someone fit for the Games. It was fun to bring about that focus in her mindset in the Games and yes maybe she was the most predictable win as we narrowed down the tributes, but I see nothing wrong with predictability. I want someone to earn their victory and she was so close. It was honestly such a toss up between her and Carys. I hadn't made my mind up until I actually wrote the chapter.

 **1** **st** **: Carys Lavell, D10F** – Which brings us to our Victor! It's funny because Carys wasn't even originally in this story. But Nate pulled through with her. I have no idea what you mean by her being such a shitty form because if you know the types of tributes I like, Carys fit that bill. So many people disliked her but I don't care. Along with Britta, her pre-reaping POV was one of my top favourites to write because I saw through that anger and understood why she was the person she was. She retained a lot of her character as she went through development but also she went through a lot action wise too! Spelt/Castor/Maisley and the apples/killing Maisley/Celestin/like… yeah there was a lot and it brought out so much that was integral to her character, but also to warrant why she won this entire thing. Such a fantastic tribute and I'm so glad she came out in the end as the winner! Congrats Nate and Carys!

* * *

 **Thanks for all the support my lovelies. It would be great to hear one final time from anyone that submitted to this story, but you do you guys. I'm grateful for these tributes, you reading, your reviews, your everything. It's been fantastic.**

 **See you with Stoneheart in the not so distant future. Bye for now!**


End file.
